


Atonement

by Lunamionny



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, F/M, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hate to Love, Healing, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Hermione Granger, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Psychological Trauma, Rape/sexual assault is not between Draco/Hermione, Recovery, Recreational Drug Use, Reference to rape (not a depiction of it), Reference to torture/war, Romance, Self-Harm, Sexual Content, Smut, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:27:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 101,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26773633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunamionny/pseuds/Lunamionny
Summary: 'We are all broken. That's how the light gets in.'When Hermione and Draco return to Hogwarts for their eighth year, they’re both broken and both changed in irrevocable, albeit different, ways. But when the school’s new mind healer implements an innovative new treatment, it ignites the possibility that, maybe, Hermione and Draco can help each other piece together the scattered fragments of themselves that the war has left behind.
Relationships: Blaise Zabini/Everyone, Daphne Greengrass/Padma Patil, Hannah Abbott/Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Luna Lovegood/Theodore Nott
Comments: 610
Kudos: 353





	1. Prologue: The Sorting

**Author's Note:**

> I’m so excited to finally share this with you - I’ve been working on it for a while now. I hope you enjoy it as much as I’ve loved writing it! 
> 
> This is an angsty fic that explores themes of psychological trauma. Due to their previous experiences, the characters we love may not always do things that we like, but I hope I’ve put this in context and have, therefore, remained faithful to their canon characterisations. 
> 
> About 60-70% of this is from Hermione’s POV and the rest is from Draco’s. Except the prologue, which is from the Sorting Hat’s POV (just roll with it, lols). 
> 
> Huge, huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazing alphabetas. 
> 
> Each chapter includes a quote from a song that was released in the 90s, in honour of the decade these kids grew into adults. 
> 
> Updates planned to be weekly on Fridays. It's 99% written so won't be abandoned.
> 
> (The quote 'We are all broken. That's how the light gets in.' is attributed to a paraphrasing of Hemingway's and Leonard Cohen's words...)

_ Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road / Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go / So make the best of this test and don't ask why / It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time  _

_ \-  _ Good Riddance, Green Day. 

* * *

**The Sorting Ceremony, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, 1st September 1991.**

“GRANGER, Hermione!"

A petite, nervous looking girl with a mass of frizzy, chestnut hair walked tentatively to the Sorting Stool and took a seat. After the Hat was placed on Hermione's head, there was a lengthy silence.

"Humph," was the only noise the Hat had made after a minute or so.

"Well? What is it?" the girl snapped.

"There's a lot to sort through here..." the Hat explained amiably, unfazed by the girl’s impatience.

"Well, you are the  _ Sorting _ Hat aren't you?"

The Hat let out a low, rumbling chuckle. "Your nervousness is making you somewhat rude, Miss Granger."

Hermione's shoulders sagged. "Sorry," she mumbled sheepishly.

"You see, there are almost  _ too many _ strong attributes in here. A fierce sense of fairness and justice. A powerful loyalty to those you choose to ally yourself with. Sophisticated empathic abilities, along with the capacity for great compassion. An incredibly bright mind – brighter than some of the  _ purest _ Ravenclaws I've sorted...there's courage too...and quite a bit of cunning...but you'd only use that cunning for actions consistent with your beliefs. Hmm...the intelligence  _ does  _ stand out, but I don't know if you'd become the best you could be in Ravenclaw...I suppose that depends on what  _ you _ think is the best you could be?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that it is not our  _ abilities  _ that define us, Miss Granger, but our  _ choices _ . What we  _ choose _ to value. How we  _ choose _ to act."

"Well...I do love books and learning...so maybe Ravenclaw…"

"Okay –"

"But! But – books and cleverness – there are more important things. Friendship. And bravery," the girl stated decisively.

"Humph. As I thought...that decides it, then,” the Hat concluded triumphantly, before continuing in an uncharacteristically gentle tone, “But a word of warning before you go, Miss Granger. Just bear in mind that ‘pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart.’” 

“You’re quoting Dostoyevsky to me? What – why?” 

“Just – well – remember to take care of  _ yourself _ , and not just everyone else...I wish you well. Yours really was an interesting mind to peer into.

“GRYFFINDOR!” 

* * *

"MALFOY, Draco!"

Before the Hat's rim had even made contact with his pale blond hair, the boy started speaking. "We both know where this is going to go, so let's not waste my time or yours, yeah?" he demanded, his voice firm and self-assured.

"Patience child, I need to have a look first...hmm...yes, there is an ideology here very consistent with what Salazar wanted in his members...but I wonder: are these beliefs really yours, young man? They seem to be more what your father –"

"Did you hear what I said about not wasting my time?"

"Hush – as much as you'd like to be, you're not in control here." The Sorting Hat was unperturbed by the young boy's rudeness; he’d sorted thousands of students over the years and there was very little that surprised him anymore. "You know, Ravenclaw would be a nice fit for you...your mind is sharp and there's a desire for knowledge. Slytherin or Ravenclaw – they will take you down two very different paths, my child –"

"Listen, you tatty little piece of repulsive, useless cloth, if you don't sort me into Slytherin now –"

"Hmm… the use of insults and intimidation to get what you want – although that only partly decides it, of course – SLYTHERIN!"

From his dive into the eleven-year-old boy’s mind, the Hat knew that it wasn’t the first time Draco had learned that cruel words and a stubborn intent could get him what he wanted. And the Hat was sadly aware of the pattern he'd just repeated – of what he'd just reinforced.

He sighed regretfully. He’d seen glimmers of the goodness that could be nurtured in the boy – if he were to be given the chance. A chance which Slytherin House was very unlikely to offer him.

"Sometimes, I do think they make me Sort too soon," he mumbled wearily to himself, as he watched the Malfoy boy saunter to the Slytherin table and bask in the clapping of his fellow housemates. 


	2. Good Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very brief references to rape (or someone being a ‘rapist’) in this chapter.  
> Huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazingly encouraging alphabetas.

_And all the roads we have to walk are winding / And all the lights that lead the way are blinding / There are many things that I would like to say to you / But I don't know how… / Because maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me’_

\- Wonderwall, Oasis.

* * *

**Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, September 1998.**

The atmosphere in the classroom was subdued and tense. Their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was now seven minutes late and the apprehension in the room was like a taut elastic band, stretched to its limit and just about to snap. 

The students were murmuring quietly to each other; there was none of the loud, carefree chatter that was commonplace just before the start of a lesson. A sense of foreboding hung in the air, worse than that moment at the beginning of an exam, just before they were ordered to turn the paper over to finally see what questions they'd have to answer. 

Hermione observed it all with a curious detachment. She could surmise what the tension was about. She'd heard what happened in this classroom last year, to most of the students who were sat with her now, heard what they'd been made to do to each other. But only fragments – she'd stopped listening when people had started to go into too much detail.

Harry was sitting next to her, jiggling his left leg up and down in short, frantic movements, and tapping his wand repeatedly on his knee, as he always did when he was restless, apprehensive or simply bored, as he'd done countless times during frost-bitten mornings and dark evenings during their months running across fields and fens. 

After a few moments, Ginny, who was sitting on Harry's other side, reached under the table and placed her hand over her boyfriend's, gently stilling his fidgeting. Clearly, Ginny wasn't as used to Harry's squirming.

As Hermione looked around – at the walls, the blackboard, the bookshelves, actively avoiding people's faces lest she make eye contact – she wondered idly if anyone had died in this room during the Battle. It was likely. The evidence would have been cleared of course, like all the damage that had been repaired, making it easier for people to pretend none of it had ever happened. This white-washing irritated her for some reason. 

As her gaze settled on some floorboards that were a lighter shade than those surrounding it – clearly newly fixed – images flashed in her mind's eye, intrusive and unwanted, of how the people might have died. She felt her heart rate speed up, fought to push the images away, took a slow, deliberate, deep breath, counting in – 

There was a sudden bang as the classroom door was flung open. 

_“Defence Against_ the Dark Arts!” a woman's voice shouted, loud and commanding. It felt like an assault after the moments of quiet, but it cut satisfyingly through the built-up tension, and Hermione silently gave thanks for the interruption to her reverie. There was an immediate shift in the room's energy. 

Hermione, along with the rest of the class, turned to watch a slight witch stride purposefully down the aisle to the front of the classroom, waving her wand at the blackboard as she did so and charming the words she'd just proclaimed to appear there. A black dress swept about her calves and dark purple hair bounced up and down at her shoulders. She wore clumpy, masculine boots which somehow managed to emphasise her petite figure whilst at the same time making her look strong and sturdy.

When she reached the front, she abruptly spun around to face the class and swung her wand in an arc around the room. A swathe of students, those that had been there last year – Nott, Neville, even Ginny – involuntarily flinched at her sudden wand movement, before visibly relaxing as the wall sconces lit up harmlessly, their light immediately brightening the previously gloomy interior. 

"Professor Isla Ingleton, auror of twenty years and now your new teacher of Defence Against the Dark Arts." The teacher’s name appeared on the blackboard as she spoke. "I apologise for my tardiness. I have higher expectations of my own punctuality, as I do of yours. It’s a pleasure to meet you all. 

“I understand that this lesson was, until recently, called ‘Dark Arts’ at this school. _What_ ," – Ingleton paused and looked pointedly around the room, her eyebrows raised expectantly – "is the _difference_ between _Defence Against_ the Dark Arts, and _Dark Arts_?" She almost bellowed the question.

The students shifted uncomfortably in their seats. There was a bemused murmuring at the teacher’s brief introduction and lack of preliminaries, but most of all at the explicit reference to what this class had been last year. Unlike the efforts at the castle’s refurbishment, this teacher was not going to white-wash. As the moments of silence drifted on, Hermione felt a gradual return of the previous tension. 

“Come on, I know the majority of you have just had a year of being taught Dark Arts rather than DADA – what is the difference? Or, rather, the _differences?”_

The students looked down at their desks, out the window, up at the ceiling – anywhere but at Professor Ingleton – in an effort to avoid being called upon. 

Hermione thought she knew the answer the teacher was looking for. And in previous years, her hand would have been eagerly up in the air. But that Hermione was gone. She didn’t feel any motivation to raise her hand and become embroiled in philosophical discussions regarding the practical implications of defensive and offensive magic. She felt no need to prove anything anymore – to herself or anyone else.

“You!” Ingleton pointed at Blaise Zabini. “What do you think?”

Zabini’s eyes widened slightly; he looked startled. “I… I'm not sure professor,” he mumbled. 

“Know a lot about the _Dark_ Arts though, don’t you?” The words were uttered by Seamus, who was sitting directly behind Zabini. He made no attempt to keep his voice quiet. 

Zabini’s spine snapped up into a straight line. He clamped his jaws together, as if trying to hold back a retort. Then, as Ingleton singled out Parvati Patil and the class’s attention moved on, Seamus continued in a lower voice which was only heard by those few around him. 

“Death Eater _rapist_.” The words dripped with vitriol. 

Hermione knew that the first accusation was true – Zabini had taken the Mark, under duress apparently, not long after she, Ron and Harry had escaped from Malfoy Manor in April. But the second accusation, and the word - _rapist_ \- hit Hermione like a stinging jinx. She’d heard the rumours about Zabini’s promiscuity - but _‘rapist’_? 

Zabini jumped out of his seat, spun on the spot so he was facing Seamus’ desk, and towered over him. Ingleton stopped speaking mid-sentence as the whole class’s attention turned to Zabini and Seamus. 

“You better take that back, _Irish_ boy.” Zabini’s tone was low and menacing, but Seamus merely smirked and slowly rose to his feet. Everyone knew that Zabini had left his wand on his desk for a reason - he, like Malfoy, could only use it for academic purposes. It had been a condition of their sentencing. Seamus, however, had his wand firmly clasped in his left hand and Hermione was unnerved at the sight of his other hand: the index finger was missing - there was a pink stub where it should have been. She didn’t know how he’d lost it - probably in the Battle. 

“Okay, boys, please sit down –” Professor Ingleton started, but her voice was drowned out by Seamus’. 

“He shouldn’t be here – he should be rotting in Azkaban!” 

Seamus raised his wand and red light burst from it – what looked like a non-verbal hex of some kind – but at the same time Nott was swivelling in his chair, rising to his feet too –

“Expelliarmus!” Nott cried. 

Seamus’ wand flew from his hand, which meant that the aim of his hex was mis-directed and the red light faded away into nothing. His wand soared through the air, landing neatly in Nott’s ready hand. 

“How fucking _dare_ you!” Seamus exclaimed. 

He launched himself at Nott, his left arm raised and his hand balled into a fist, ready to punch. But Nott caught Seamus’ wrist before it made contact with his face, pushing it back violently at the same time as Zabini went forward, in an apparent attempt to protect Nott. With the combined forces of Nott and Zabini, Seamus was propelled backwards, lost his balance and fell to the floor. 

“Stop this at _once_!” Ingleton shouted. 

But the students ignored her as Neville got to his feet – whether to help Seamus up or to hex the Slytherin boys in retaliation, it wasn’t clear – and Nott, who also seemed to have lost his balance in the skirmish, reeled to the side, flailing his arms in a clumsy attempt to right himself and accidentally hit Ginny over the head as he did so. 

Harry’s face contorted in fury and he sprang to his feet, impulsively casting a nasty stinging jinx at Nott, whilst Zabini seemed to be going for Seamus again – he was able to avoid Neville’s offensive spells because of a protective shield that was emitting, shimmering and impenetrable, from Daphne Greengrass’ wand. Hermione saw that Malfoy had his arm around Zabini’s torso – she wasn’t sure when he’d entered the fray – in an apparent attempt to pull Zabini back.

“Calm down, mate!” Malfoy urged firmly. 

It was then that Hermione lost the sequence of events, but she was aware of Dean and Parvati standing uncertainly on the periphery of the group, and that Pansy Parkinson was suddenly in the midst of it, although it wasn’t long before she was blinded by a Bat-Bogey hex of Ginny’s. 

“You vile _bitch!_ ” Pansy cried as she desperately tried to counter-jinx the bogeys off of her face. 

“Impedimenta! Immobulus!” 

At Professor Ingleton’s cry, all eight of them – Zabini, Nott, Malfoy, Pansy, Seamus, Neville, Ginny and Harry – were flung away from each other and ceased moving. 

Hermione felt a burgeoning of respect for their new teacher – to immobilise so many humans at once took profound concentration and advanced magical skill. It seemed clear now, though, that Ingleton could have stopped the fight before it had got so far, and Hermione fleetingly wondered why she hadn’t. 

Hermione had not moved from her seat during the whole skirmish, although she’d kept her hand tightly clasped around her wand. She was aware that if this had happened just a few months ago, she would have been in the middle of the fray, especially after Harry had gotten involved. Her concern for him – for all her friends – as well as a sense of injustice that anyone would _try_ and hurt them would have spurred her to move. 

But now, she barely felt any of that. Of course, she still cared about her friends, but the fight in front of her hadn’t seemed real. It was as if she’d been looking at it through a wall of glass. And two of the Slytherins were effectively wandless, which meant the fracas had been heavily favoured towards the Gryffindors. 

“When I terminate my paralysing hex, I want _all_ of you – including those still in their seats – to stand and move to the edge of the room,” Ingleton’s voice simmered with barely repressed fury. “No one is to _speak_ , and if anyone so much as _raises_ their wand, they will be sent to Headmistress McGonagall’s office quicker than I can say ‘expelled’! Have I made myself _understood?!_ ”

There was a muttering of agreement from those students still able to move their lips. Once Ingleton reversed her paralysing hex, all the students moved to the side of the room, as they’d been ordered. 

As Hermione stood in a huddle at the edge of the room, someone behind her murmured dryly, “Looks like the war isn’t over at Hogwarts.” 

The person was standing so close, Hermione felt the warmth of his breath tickle the hairs on her neck, causing a shiver to creep up her spine. She didn’t need to turn around to know that the sardonic tone belonged to Malfoy. She mentally rolled her eyes and resolutely refused to respond, or indicate that she’d heard him at all. 

Then, with another impressive succession of spells, Ingleton moved the desks and chairs so they were arranged in a large semi-circle around the blackboard. 

“Right! Sit down! I don’t care where, but maybe not next to someone you feel inclined to curse!” she demanded. The students shuffled quietly towards the desks and Hermione sat down next to Harry again. “I will _not_ have that kind of disruption in my classroom again! I will _not_ have anyone drawing a wand at any other student except when it is part of an exercise that I have set! Is that _understood_?”

There was another round of mumbled agreements from the students. 

Hermione kept her eyes on the floor in front of her, so the shoes and ankles of the students sitting across from her were the only things in her eyeline. She didn’t want to look at other people’s faces, it felt too exposing somehow. She was acutely aware that everyone in the class could see her, watch her if they wanted, which made her feel uncomfortably vulnerable. She wondered if that was _why_ Ingleton had arranged the class in such a way. 

“You!” Ingleton exclaimed, pointing at Nott. “What’s your name?” 

“Nott, Professor. Theo.” 

The class braced itself for the torrent of detentions and House point deductions that Ingleton was no doubt about to dole out. 

“That was an _excellently_ executed Expelliarmus, Theo!” Nott’s brows scrunched together in confusion at the compliment and a wave of disconcerted fidgeting rippled through the class. “Why, can anyone tell me, do I say that?”

 _Timing and inflection_ , Hermione thought numbly, but her arm remained lowered and she didn’t speak. 

“Firstly, the timing was excellent,” Ingleton began to answer her own question. “With Expelliarmus, one needs to make sure they have incantated the spell before their opponent’s curse will reach them. So many duellers mis-time and, although they may succeed in disarming their opponent, they’re still caught by their adversary’s curse! If you are going to risk this particular defensive spell, you need to ensure you have the _time!_

“Secondly, inflection! Mr Nott’s – Theo’s – inflection was near-prefect, especially considering the difficult angle at which he aimed it, leading for his opponent’s wand to travel straight to his free hand, for an easy catch. So often, if the inflection is clumsy, the opponent’s wand can travel in all sorts of directions, possibly even hindering rather than helping one. And thirdly, what made that an excellent execution was the _context_ . The fact that it was a _defensive_ rather than _offensive_ spell was entirely appropriate, given the _context_ . Which brings me back to my original question: _what_ is the difference between Defence Against the Dark Arts and the Dark Arts?” 

There was a long, drawn out, uncomfortable silence. 

“Well…I suppose there's the spells?” Parvati suggested tentatively. 

“Yes? Carry on?” Ingleton urged. 

“Well…with the Dark Arts, the spells cause pain, harm...suffering. With DADA, the spells protect _against_ harm…” Parvati trailed off doubtfully. 

“Yes, indeed,” Ingleton said politely, no doubt relieved that someone had at least attempted to answer her question, even if the response was somewhat stating the obvious. “Thank you for your contribution, Miss?” 

“Patil. Parvati Patil.” 

“Parvati. And what is the difference between the _use_ of these spells?” Ingleton asked, her eyes roaming the semi-circle hopefully. 

There was a silence again, but Ingleton waited, seemingly determined not to break and give them the answer. Hermione admired her tenacity, and for the first time she was tempted to voice her own thoughts, if only to stop the drawn out silence and move the class on. She opened her mouth, about to speak, but before she did so, someone across the circle from her mumbled something. 

“Pardon?” Ingleton spun around eagerly in the direction of the mumble, as if trying to catch a snitch before it disappeared. 

Hermione looked up at the speaker and her heart stuttered oddly as she saw that Draco Malfoy was sitting directly opposite her, his eyes fixed on the desk in front of him. 

“Intent,” Draco repeated more clearly, reluctantly raising his head as he addressed the teacher. 

“Yes!” Ingleton seemed enthused. “Could you expand on that please, Draco?” 

Malfoy clearly didn’t need an introduction - his name and face had been on the front page of _The Prophet_ on more than one occasion over the summer. He gave Ingleton a surly look of defiance, as if he’d already said more than he wanted.

“No,” he stated calmly but firmly. 

Their new Professor raised her eyebrows but otherwise appeared unfazed. 

“Can anyone else expand on Draco’s most interesting point?” 

Hermione couldn’t help herself. The long silences were starting to make her agitated; she wanted the class to establish the philosophical point Ingleton was trying to make and get the fuck on with the lesson. She found herself speaking. Like the others, she didn’t raise her hand. 

“Whether one wants to intentionally cause harm to others, or to protect oneself from harm whilst minimising harm to others, will result in a very different choice of spell.” Hermione’s tone was bored and dispassionate. She realised she sounded like… like Malfoy would if he answered a question, and mildly hated herself for it.

“Yes! Yes, Miss Granger, thank you!” Ingleton had had no trouble identifying her either; she'd been in the papers enough over the summer too, albeit for different reasons than Malfoy. “And what _decides_ our intent?” Ingleton offered yet another question out to the class. This time, the silence was mercifully short – Nott broke it. 

“I suppose a person’s intent depends on many things - aim, morality, ethics,” Nott shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, and it seemed he forced his next word out, “Ideology…” 

“Yes, thank you Theo.” 

Neville piped up then but Hermione had stopped listening because, ever since she’d spoken, Malfoy had been staring at her intently, his expression unreadable. And, as she caught his eye, she couldn’t help but stare back, as if his eyes had some invisible hook attached to them that had caught hold of her somehow. It was Harry’s voice that finally enabled her to wrench her eyes away. 

“I suppose emotions would come into it too,” Harry said. ”Like, if you’re feeling a really strong emotion at the time, like revenge, or hate, or spite - that’ll affect your intent...and...you have to really mean it....” 

“Knowledge impacts on our intent, too.” Malfoy spoke again, but this time, his cold gaze was directed straight at Harry, his voice hard. “You need to know what you’re doing with certain curses, because uncontrolled emotion and ignorance are a very dangerous combination.” 

Harry guardedly returned Malfoy’s stare, fidgeting uncomfortably, and Hermione knew he was battling with a ripple of guilt. The whole exchange stirred a complex mixture of emotions in her, which she tried to squash into the corner of her mind because she knew it would take too much energy to feel them all. 

“Yes. Quite,” Ingleton said. “That’s why in this class we will be learning both protective – defensive – _and_ offensive spells. Because in order to make an informed decision about whether to use an offensive spell, as well as how to protect ourselves against them, we need to both _know_ and reflect on our _intent_ in using them…”

Finally, it seemed as though Ingleton was satisfied she’d made her point about the difference between DADA and DA and, as she then started to talk through the curriculum, Hermione stopped listening again. She knew it all anyway – they had been given the information before the start of term – and those emotions she’d been trying to squash down were rising to the surface of her mind, ominous and unstoppable, along with images of Malfoy, lying on the floor of a Hogwarts toilet, blood seeping from him as if he’d been sliced open by a drunken butcher. 

She was suddenly finding the air in the classroom heavy and stifling - she couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen into her lungs no matter how deeply she breathed. She craved fresh air - and had an overwhelming urge to be outside in the large expanse of the Scottish highlands - not in this ancient castle where the halls seemed full of echoes of the recent dead. 

Without quite realising what she was doing, Hermione had gathered up her things, rose from her seat and headed towards the door. 

“Are you going somewhere, Miss Granger?” Ingleton asked with mock politeness, her eyebrows raised. 

Hermione found it hard to think of an answer that wasn't the truth: _yes, outside because I’ll suffocate if I stay in here_. But she knew she couldn't say that. 

“I'm done,” was all she managed, her tone expressionless, before she turned and exited the classroom. 

Once in the coolness of the corridor outside, she instantly started to feel better, and sped up her pace as she headed towards the main exit. A minute or so later, she heard a cry from behind her. 

"Hey! Granger!"

Hermione slowed to a stop at the sound of her surname. She knew who the speaker was without having to turn around: Malfoy. He must have left the class a short time after her, and she fleetingly wondered why - there was still a good twenty minutes before the lesson was due to end. 

She turned unhurriedly on the spot and saw his tall frame striding towards her. He wore a frown of agitation on his face, as if her very presence annoyed him. Which, she supposed, it probably did. 

She wasn’t scared of Malfoy. She never really had been. His hatred for what she _was_ used to scare her, and what he’d stood for used to scare her – the prejudice and the bigotry. But not him. She’d always viewed him as she viewed all bullies: as cowards. Pathetic, insecure cowards. 

He came to a stop an arms length away from her. 

“Are you following me?” Hermione couldn’t help but spit out scathingly. 

Malfoy’s face creased up into a scowl. “Don’t flatter yourself. Why would I do that? I have an –” he faltered. “A meeting. What’s wrong with _you_ , anyway?" He asked the question accusingly, as if her behaviour was a personal affront to him. Which, if she had any energy to feel right then, she’d find amusing in its absurdity. As if she had to justify herself to Draco-fucking-Malfoy. "Walking out of class, being all _surly_ , going around with a face like a slapped arse–” 

"Fuck off, Malfoy." 

But there was no conviction in her voice. Because, ultimately, she didn’t care what he thought, or what he said. She just wanted him to stop talking, to go away. Why _she_ didn't just walk away, she wasn't sure. It was his eyes, she realised after a moment, the slate grey intensity of them - they were keeping her grounded to the flagstones of the hallway like the roots of a hundred-year-old oak tree.

He scoffed and his lips curled into a sneer. 

"And casual swearing. That’s not you. What’s happened to you? To the prefect that would take five points for profanity use? To the annoying fucking know-it-all, so excited to answer a question in class I thought she might’ve been creaming her knickers?"

She barely flinched at his crude insults – they hit her like blunt knives and dropped futilely to the floor. Her lack of reaction seemed to offend Malfoy further, because he persisted. He scrunched his face into a mock pleading expression.

“Oh, please sir, _please!_ Pick me! I know the answer, I’m such a _good girl_!” He was half imitating her in her earlier years and half faking sexual arousal. It would have been funny in its ridiculousness if it wasn’t for the fact that his intention was to humiliate her.

Which it did – she felt the heat of a blush rise to her cheeks. And for the first time in weeks, it seemed like Hermione actually _felt_ something – a bubbling of anger. She instinctively reached for her wand, which she always did when she felt the rare fluttering of anger or surprise or _anything_ lately – it was impulsive. 

Malfoy’s eyes darted down, noticing her hand diving into her wand pocket. She could tell from his expression that he knew he’d riled her, which had probably been his intention all along.

"What happened to me?" Hermione spat the words out like acid, echoing his question.

"Yeah?" he demanded. 

She didn’t say her next words to make any particular point, but solely because she thought they might be the truth.

"I don’t know, Malfoy. I think that girl might have died back in April." Her voice was flat, because her anger was already dissipating and being replaced by a familiar numbness. "On the floor of your drawing room."

Malfoy's eyes flickered uncertainly and his sneering expression started to morph into something else, but Hermione turned on her heel and strode down the corridor before she could see what it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your kudos, comments, thoughts and constructive feedback are cherished and treasured!


	3. A Fable Agreed Upon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge, huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazing alphabetas, and for those that have left their thoughts and kudos already on this story! :o)

_ When you were here before / Couldn’t look you in the eye / You’re just like an angel / Your skin makes me cry /… But I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo / What the hell am I doing here? / I don’t belong here… _

_ \-  _ Creep, Radiohead. 

* * *

On returning to Hogwarts, Draco had known that getting through his eighth year was mostly going to be a matter of damage limitation: keep your head down, avoid confrontation, do what you’re told, pass your NEWTs, then get the fuck out of there. But it was only the first day of lessons and his school year was already turning into one almighty clusterfuck. 

First, there’d been that Merlin-awful fracas that Finnigan had started, which Draco had not been able to stop himself getting involved in because there was no bloody way he was going to see Blaise get fucked over for fighting on his first day. Thank Salazar he hadn’t used his wand. 

Then there was the fact that, due to said fracas, he’d forgotten he had his first mind healing appointment of the school year smack-bang in the middle of his DADA lesson. ‘I know it’s an inconvenient time to meet,’ Alethea, the mind-healer, had explained a few weeks ago, when the appointment had been made, ‘it’s just that things are a bit frantic at the beginning of term. After that, we can meet during one of your free periods.’

Back in May, before the dust had even settled over the final Battle, his mother had insisted that Draco meet with a mind healer. He’d reluctantly agreed, knowing there was no point in arguing, but also knowing that his mother’s intentions were not solely related to his emotional wellbeing. He was aware that the Wizengamot would look upon him more favourably if he was engaging in ‘talking therapy’; if he showed some capacity for remorse, for reflection, for rehabilitation. Well, he had the former two in spades. The latter, however, he wasn’t so sure about. 

And so he’d met with Alethea Allerton, Professor of Mind Healing, for eight long, torturous appointments over the summer. And as if that wasn’t enough, the Wizengamot had made it a condition of his sentencing that he continue to attend healing sessions whilst at Hogwarts. 

But the DADA scuffle had swept the appointment from Draco’s mind and it was only when Granger had done her surly diva-move and stormed out the classroom that he’d remembered he was meant to be somewhere else. Then, as he’d hurried down the corridor to get to Alethea’s office, he’d seen Granger flouncing down the hallway in front of him, her hair bouncing irritatingly as she did so. Merlin, he’d never  _ met  _ anyone with such irritating hair. 

He didn’t quite know what had possessed him to stop her and goad her like he had – an uncomfortable ripple of self-loathing simmered deep within him as he remembered it. He’d wanted to say other things – less... _ aresholerish _ things to her – but his mind had totally failed him and he’d fallen into ‘default dickhead mode’. And what had she said just before she’d stormed away? But he couldn’t think about that now, he pushed the memory away because he’d arrived at the Alethea’s office and this next hour was no doubt going to be enough of a headfuck as it was. 

Draco took a moment to catch his breath and compose himself before knocking on the door.

“Come in!” a muffled voice called from inside. 

Draco reinforced his emotional battlements, schooled his features into practised indifference, and pushed the door open. Alethea stood in the centre of the room by two armchairs that were separated by a low coffee table. Beyond her, by a window, was a small desk and a wooden filing cabinet. 

“Draco – hi!” she greeted him with a smile, the warmth and genuineness of which he still hadn’t got used to. Much like he hadn’t got used to calling her by her first name, but she always insisted, much to his chagrin; he couldn’t help inwardly scoffing at the pretence of friendliness and trust this implied. She gestured to one of the chairs. “Take a seat.” 

The healer looked much the same as she had over the summer: auburn hair fell in waves over her shoulders, and she wore a loose fitting top with a long cotton skirt in sage green and dusky grey. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Draco apologised as he sat down. ‘Damage limitation’ had moved to ‘damage control’. 

“That’s fine. Did you have trouble getting here? I did clear it with the teachers that you could leave the lesson early.” Alethea sat down in the other armchair as Draco shifted uncomfortably in his. 

“Yeah, no, the teacher was fine about it. Just Dark Arts – I mean DADA – got quite...intense. I forgot about the time,” he explained lamely.

She smiled again. “No worries. So, I know we went over confidentiality when we first met but I thought we’d touch on that again because things are a bit different now we’re meeting in this context,” she began.  _ In this context _ … did she mean at school, or the fact that the Ministry was now making him see her? Maybe both… “As you know, I’m going to be working here at Hogwarts for the next year. Similarly to what I explained before: nearly everything we talk about is confidential. I do keep some notes,” she gestured to a roll of parchment and quill resting on the table between them, “but no one else will have access to them. They’ll be kept securely in this room. 

“The only time I may need to break that confidentiality is if I’m worried you might be at risk in some way – either from yourself or someone else – or if I’m concerned that someone else is at risk. And also...” She looked uncomfortable. “The Wizengamot have asked for some reports, which I’ll have to provide them with. An initial one and then one at the end of each term. I will try and keep the information I share with them as limited as possible... Do you have any questions about any of that, Draco?” 

Draco shook his head, keeping his expression neutral. He’d known it all anyway. 

“Okay.... Well, I also thought it might be useful to talk about how, back in the summer, it had been your  _ choice  _ to meet with me and now it’s...not so much. So - I wonder how you feel about being here?” 

Draco found his gaze drifting towards the window. He shrugged. “It’s not something I’d be doing if I had the choice.” He tried not to sound too churlish. 

“Right,” Alethea’s tone was neutral. “So, as you haven’t sought out this kind of mind healing at this point, it sounds like it would be important to think about how these meetings might be helpful for you. Maybe let’s review the sessions we’ve had already. How have you found them helpful, if at all?” 

Draco shifted in his seat, his insides tightening. As much as he’d found the sessions in the summer excruciating because they’d forced him to confront things he would rather ignore, he had to admit that they had been helpful to some degree.

He forced his next words out. “They helped with the terror-turns. And the flashbacks.” 

She nodded encouragingly. He could tell she was delighted that something had seemed to work, and probably relieved he wasn’t being  _ completely  _ contrary. 

“The panic attacks have reduced significantly since the beginning of the summer, haven’t they?” ‘Panic attacks’ - the Muggle word for ‘terror-turn’. Alethea often used Muggle terminology. Draco wondered if she was Muggleborn, but there was no way he was going to bring that up with her. “And we talked about how they can be triggered by intrusive thoughts and images. How often do you experience intrusive thoughts now? And flashbacks?” 

Draco fisted his hand into the hem of his jumper. He hadn’t realised how sweaty his palms had become. “The last flashback was about a month ago. The nightmares seem fucking relentless. I still get the intrusive thoughts, every few days, but they’re manageable...with the techniques…”

Alethea nodded slowly, her face managing to convey sympathy without being irritatingly patronising. He wondered if nuanced facial expressions was something mind healers got trained in.

“And what techniques have been helpful in reducing the flashbacks and intrusive thoughts, do you think?” 

Draco was, by now, aware of what worked for him. “The relaxation and breathing techniques, to an extent, but mostly the re-living stuff we did. And – and the grounding techniques.” 

“Great!” It was the most animated Draco had ever seen Alethea. Maybe she was starting to think that he wasn’t a total hopeless case. He would need to dissuade her of that – he wouldn't want to raise her hopes for them to be disappointed again. “Okay, so flashbacks and nightmares seem to be things to keep an eye on. Going back to how these sessions could continue to be useful for you, Draco: if you left after a series of, say, twenty sessions and were able to say that they  _ had  _ been helpful in some way, what would be different?” 

How was he supposed to answer that? Hadn’t he just said he wouldn’t be here if he had a choice? He let out an impatient release of breath. A huff. He'd just huffed. Like a petulant child. He wondered if he'd ever have a day when he wouldn’t do anything that didn’t result in a new wave of self-loathing to ripple over him. 

The silence stretched out painfully. 

“There's nothing you'd want to change?” Alethea finally asked. 

“Of course there fucking is,” the words tripped off his tongue before he could stop them. Then, “Sorry.” 

Alethea hadn’t flinched at this stifled outburst. “That’s okay, Draco, you can swear here,” she said dismissively, like it was a moot point and she didn’t want to get distracted with conversations about etiquette. “What would you like to change? If you could?”

He looked at her for several moments. ‘What would he like to change?’ Was she serious? Where should he start?

“It’d be quite nice to get this bullshit Mark off my arm,” he raised his left arm slightly for clarity. 

“Okay,” Alethea said, seemingly unfazed by the admission. “If that Mark wasn’t on your arm anymore, what difference would that make?”

Draco was caught off guard by the question. Because it might have made a difference if it had never been burned into his skin in the first place... although what kind of difference was debatable… And Draco had long since stopped thinking of ‘what ifs’, that way madness lay...but her questions about the future – would it make any difference if it disappeared tomorrow? Or the next day? 

“I guess it wouldn’t really. Make a difference. If I got rid of it now,” he concluded. 

“Hmm...so why is having that Mark  _ now  _ troublesome?” 

“I suppose it’s what it represents. What it means that I took it in the first place. What it means to others.”

“And what  _ does  _ it mean to others?”

“A lot of your questions have obvious answers, you know that?” The familiar sneer returned to his voice and he mildly hated himself for his reaction. Again. 

Alethea smiled plaintively. “I don’t like to assume things.  What do you think you having the Mark means to others?” she repeated. 

“That I’m dark. Evil. Rotten. Corrupted.” 

“Is that what you are, Draco?”

The question glided about his mind, but he refused to think about it in detail. “Maybe.. but it doesn’t matter what I think.” 

“Doesn’t it?” 

A prolonged, almost agonising pause followed. Draco looked out the window again. He saw a thestral flying low above the canopy of the Forbidden Forest. He noticed Alethea’s eyes follow the flight of the winged horse too, and idly wondered who she’d seen die. 

“Whose opinion does matter?” Alethea persisted. 

Another silence. Brown eyes drifted into Draco’s mind’s eye; a mass of chestnut curls. He shrugged.

“None of it matters anyway. People aren’t going to change their opinion of me. Not after everything that’s happened. The war may have weakened some prejudices, but it’s strengthened others. History’s always written by the winners. ‘What is history, if not a fable agreed upon?’” he quoted, and then immediately cringed at his own pretentiousness. 

“Napoleon?”

Draco nodded imperceptibly, secretly respecting Alethea for recognising the quote. Growing up a Malfoy, he hadn't been able to learn much about the Muggle world, but his father had felt it important to learn the basic political history; ‘Muggle politics nearly always impacts on Magical politics, so it’s important to know your stuff. And knowledge is power,’ his father had said.

“Often, the stories people have of us lead to certain expectations of what we might do and how we'll act. Sometimes, people’s expectations of us are so heavy, we end up living up to them despite ourselves, even if they’re negative expectations. Then we reinforce people's views of us and their expectations increase. It becomes a vicious cycle.” 

Draco was silent yet again. But this time it was because he needed to think over her words. 

“Okay, maybe we'll come back to that at some point. Is there anything else you'd like to be different? If I waved my wand and cast a spell that couldn’t change the past, or the present, but could control what happens in the next days, weeks, years, what would you wish for?” 

An answer came to Draco easily and slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it. “Maybe for the nightmares to stop.” 

“Okay. Good. We can work on that. Do you mind if I ask a few more questions about that?”

“You’ve not asked permission for any other questions you’ve asked.” He knew he was sounding petulant again. Merlin, he was an arsehole.

Alethea smiled wanly, seemingly unoffended by his animosity. Then she asked about his nightmares: how long has he had them? Since the beginning of the sixth year, he told her. How frequent are they now? Every other night at least. 

“And do you tend to get one recurring nightmare, or are they all different?”

“There are a few that return again and again,” he said in a small voice. He hadn’t meant to sound so weak. He started to jiggle his foot up and down impulsively. 

“Okay, maybe let’s start with one of the recurring ones? Maybe the last one you had? If you're able to tell it to me in the present tense, like we did with the reliving work, that would be good? But if not, no worries.” Her tone was soft, almost tentative. 

Draco thought. The latest nightmare had been yesterday, the first night of term. He wondered if it had been triggered by returning to Hogwarts. It wasn’t one of the worst, so he thought he would be able to tell her. He stared at a thread that had come loose from the rug at his feet and began to talk. 

“I’m on the roof of the Astronomy Tower. Dumbledore’s looking at me pityingly. My wand’s drawn at him, my hands are shaking. I feel like I'm about to vomit. I need to kill him but for some reason I can’t cast the curse. I look over at Snape who’s smirking at me. He usually says something like: ‘I can’t help you, I’m dead now too’. So I do it. A jet of green light bursts from my wand and I feel something break inside me. Dumbledore falls backwards, over the parapets. I run to the edge of the battlements and look down. But it’s not Dumbledore's body at the bottom. It’s my own. My limbs are broken and bent at odd angles. People start coming towards my body but they stop a metre or so from it. It’s as if they’re repulsed by it, so disgusted by me that they can’t come any closer. And so my body rots at the bottom of the tower because no one can bear to come near it...and that’s when I normally wake up.” 

Draco’s heart was pounding, his hands were curled into such tight fists they ached. He continued to stare fixedly at the loose thread, counting his breaths silently in his head, in and out, until his heart slowed. He finally raised his eyes to look reluctantly at Alethea. She was wearing her familiar sympathetic expression; there was a softness about her eyes and something else there too – something that was uncannily like Dumbledore’s expression in his nightmare – something he didn’t want to admit was pity. 

“And do you think you’re able to tell me what  _ actually  _ happened that night? Based on what you can remember?”

So he told her about the task he’d been given by the dark wizard that had been Tom Riddle, about the vanishing cabinet and the Death Eaters entering Hogwarts. About ending up on the Astronomy Tower, and how it had finally been time to carry out the impossible orders of a madman. He talked through the scenario with practised distance. He’d told the story so many times before – had practised telling it to his lawyer, so that he could recount it during his trial without falling apart. He relayed the words now, without really connecting to what he was saying, because it was safer that way.

“And how were you  _ feeling  _ during that time on the Tower, Draco?” 

He shrugged.

“Brave? Exhilarated?” she suggested gently. “Determined? Excited? Scared? Anxious? Confused? Those are a few options. Which ones come closest?” 

“Scared. Anxious,” Draco admitted reluctantly.  _ Fucking terrified _ , he added silently to himself. 

“Hmm, I can imagine,” Alethea empathised. But could she? Draco thought, quelling a rise of bitterness and resentment. Could she really imagine what that had been like for him? “And what was going through your mind? What were you thinking – or imagining – in order to feel so scared and anxious?” 

Draco fought to keep his emotional battlements up whilst he tried to remember what had been going through his mind that night. He continued to recall it all with detachment, as if he were watching it through a Pensieve. 

“Mostly I thought of my parents.” Then he rushed the words out in the hope that if he said them quickly enough he wouldn’t have to think about them too much. “About how he – Voldemort – would kill them if I didn’t kill Dumbledore. Then about how he’d kill me. About how Dumbledore was one of the most talented wizards ever and how the fuck was I going to murder him, especially when I didn’t really want to anyway...” Draco finished weakly. 

“So, you experienced a real threat to your  _ life  _ that night, and to the life of the people that probably mean the most to you in the world – your parents. Hence, it makes perfect sense that the feeling associated with that night is one of  _ threat _ ,” Alethea spoke in a soft, matter-of-fact tone. “As we’ve talked about before, anxiety is a response to  _ threat _ . If part of our mind thinks there’s something threatening – something dangerous – about a situation, it sets off an anxiety response. 

“And we evolved to feel anxiety because ultimately, although it’s a very unpleasant feeling, it can actually keep us safe. When our mind recognises a danger, it urges us to run away or fight it – fight or flight. Hence, all the physiological reactions we might experience when we’re anxious is our mind and body’s way of gearing us up to fight and flee. For example, our heart and breathing quickening – that’s to get more oxygen to our muscles. Adrenaline is released, which means we might feel a bit sick or nauseous.” 

Alethea had explained a lot of this to Draco before and he let her repeat herself without interruption because, he had to admit, it was helpful to hear it all again. The concepts had been hard to get his head around at first, and it had been difficult to admit that he genuinely and unreservedly related to the experiences she described. That had meant admitting that he’d spent most of the last year of his life feeling terrified, which was a hard thing to accept; his father had always said that fear was a weakness. 

They went on to discuss, once again, the nature of trauma memories. About how, when an experience is very traumatic, the mind does not process it properly at the time it’s happening. Hence, the memory of the event gets stored in the mind in the ‘wrong’ way – in a way that means that, later on, the mind cannot tell that the event its recalling is actually a memory – and so a person thinks they are experiencing it again, and will feel the same emotions they felt at the time, often to the same severity. And how, because the memory is not stored away ‘neatly’ in the mind, it keeps ‘bouncing’ back into consciousness, when someone’s mental defenses are down – like during sleep, in the form of nightmares – or during waking hours, in the form of intrusive thoughts or flashbacks.” 

“Right,” Draco acknowledged shortly. 

“Do you do anything or  _ not  _ do anything to manage how anxious this particular memory makes you?” Alethea asked. 

“I – I can’t go to the Tower without having a terror-turn. So I had to drop out of my Astronomy NEWT. I can climb up to the top of the Tower’s stairs, but can’t go outside onto the roof.” 

Alethea nodded, her face neutral, as if it was perfectly normal for a eighteen-year-old boy – man – to be made incapacitated by an innocuous tower of an ancient castle. 

“So, part of your mind associates the Astronomy Tower with danger and threat, and therefore wants you to avoid it to keep yourself safe.” 

Draco grunted in acknowledgment. He appreciated some kind of logic being applied to the darkness that paralysed him, a kind of logic that made it seem as if, maybe, his feelings weren’t a sign of a fundamental weakness within him. 

“Do you remember how we talked about, and practised, habituation and graded exposure techniques?” Draco nodded, but Alethea continued to explain the concepts again regardless. Again, he didn’t mind – maybe it would be a chance for him to calm his increasingly pounding heart. “We know that a way of updating your mind – so that it no longer associates the Tower with danger – is to provide it with new experiences of the Tower  _ not  _ being threatening. The principles are the same as when practised exposure over the summer: going forward, if you were to expose yourself, subtly but frequently, to the Tower over time, and nothing untoward happened, your mind will have lots of experiences of it being unthreatening, and so can update its belief to ‘the tower is safe’, for example. That’s called ‘habituation’.”

Draco had known this was coming – had expected that she may suggest ‘exposure’ as a technique for reducing his nightmares of the Tower. It had been something they’d practised over the summer with certain rooms in his home – it had basically been a necessity for him to do it in order to carry on living there. 

“But, as we also discussed before, it’s important not to do this gradually, rather than marching up the Tower’s roof, going straight to the edge and peering over. If you did that, it’s likely you’ll experience a high amount of anxiety, and it’ll be re-traumatising. But we know that doing it in small stages – small steps – can be helpful. For example, the first step might just be climbing to the top of the stairs and just looking out, but not  _ going  _ out on the roof, during the daytime. Maybe with someone else – someone you trust.” 

Draco’s insides recoiled slightly. It was one of the parts of the technique he found the hardest – to have someone with him when he confronted his fears – for others to see him so weak and vulnerable. 

“And doing that several times, until your anxiety reduces to a tolerable level,” Alethea continued. “And then the next stage might be doing it on your own. And then taking one step out onto the roof. Etcetera. And that’s what we mean by ‘graded exposure’,” she finally finished. 

Draco nodded curtly. “I remember,” he said shortly. 

“Do you think it’s something you’d like to try?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, sounds good.” Because he knew this year would be hard enough without having to try and avoid the fucking Astronomy Tower. And if it helped with his nightmares... And it was something practical, something concrete to do. 

“Okay. Let’s plan out a graded hierarchy,” Alethea reached for her parchment, “What do you think your first step would be?”

“Erm..maybe, like you said, just going up to the top of the stairs, then standing at the top step, looking out onto the roof…” 

“Okay. Great. How anxious do you feel about doing that? Out of ten, where ten is the most anxious you could feel?” 

Seven. Six on a good day, Draco thought. “Maybe four. Or five.” The lie flowed easily from his lips; his father’s voice still echoed at the back of his mind, scathingly declaring any display of fear as weak and repellent. 

“Would it be less if you did it with someone you trusted?” 

“Yeah, probably by a point or so.” 

She nodded. He couldn’t tell whether she could see through his bullshit or not. Her neutral, kindly face gave nothing away.

“Okay, so do you think you could do that once in the next week – go up to the tower, and stand at the top for a period of time, with someone you felt safe with? Your anxiety will rise, but you have the techniques to manage that. I would be happy to do that with you Draco?” 

Although Alethea had been within him in the summer, through the agonising sessions when he’d re-taught his brain not to be terrified of some parts of his ancestral home, Draco inwardly shuddered at the thought of people seeing him walking around the school and up the Astronomy Tower with the new mind-healer. “Erm...I think I’ll do it with a friend.” 

Another nod, as something flickered in her eyes. He supposed she was relieved to hear he  _ had  _ friends.

“Who’s that? And when do you think you’ll do it?” Merlin, she was thorough. As if sensing his agitation, she continued, “Sometimes, it helps to really define our goals. If we do that, we’re more likely to carry them out.” 

“Probably with Theo...maybe Saturday evening,” he suggested uncertainly. Because she was right: saying it out loud made it more real – more like something he had to do. 

She smiled. “Great. Okay. We’re meeting once more before then. Maybe, during that session, we can go over the events of that night again, possibly do some re-living work? Update the memory cognitively, so that your anxiety will be lower when you go to the Tower. But Draco, this is totally up to you – it’s a hundred percent your choice whether you do this or not, and there’s no shame if you decide it’s too soon.” 

Draco wasn’t thrilled at the idea, but he agreed to do it. Because maybe, if it worked, he wouldn’t have to put silencing charms around his bed every night, and Theo and Blaise wouldn’t hear him cry out at the relentless shadows that haunted his dreams. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Talking therapy’, including working with people that have experienced traumatic events, is something I do in my day job. The concepts mentioned in this chapter, such as ‘grounding techniques’ and ‘reliving work’, are real concepts from trauma theory/therapy. 
> 
> A good therapist would make sure they’ve done as much work within the therapy sessions as possible before suggesting the exposure therapy that Alethea has here. Their assessment of Draco’s difficulties would have been much more thorough too. However, I wanted this to be read for entertainment, and not as a PTSD treatment manual, so how Alethea conducts her work in this fic may not be exactly how it would be done in real life, although I hope I never misrepresent therapy either. 
> 
> There are many techniques and approaches that are used with trauma survivors. What’s mentioned in this chapter, and later in the story, is only a glimpse and not exhaustive. 
> 
> Accurately representing mental health difficulties and their treatment is important to me so I am more than happy to discuss questions/thoughts in the comments. :o) 
> 
> xxx
> 
> Your kudos, comments, thoughts and constructive feedback are cherished and treasured!


	4. Rush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: references to attempted suicide in this chapter, but not a depiction of it.
> 
> Thanks to all those who've shared thoughts and kind words about this fic! The first half of this chapter is exposition about Hermione and her summer, but bear with it - there’s some 'lovely' Dramione action in the second half! 
> 
> Huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazingly encouraging alphabetas.

_ Crash and burn / All the stars explode tonight / How'd you get so desperate? / How'd you stay alive? ... _

_ Get well soon / Please don't go any higher / How are you so burnt / When you're barely on fire? - _

Malibu, Hole. 

* * *

_ What’s happened to you? _

Malfoy’s words echoed repeatedly around Hermione’s head as she navigated through her first week of term. 

She pondered them as she went through the motions of getting up, showering and dressing every morning – she carried out the actions so automatically that she often felt oddly separate from her body; from her skin that burned with the heat of the shower water, or the hand that ran a comb through her unruly hair. 

Malfoy was right – something had happened. But it hadn’t been a single, momentous event. It had been a multitude of small occurrences that had gradually shifted and changed things within her, without her really being aware of them, like an insidious, malicious poison.

As she sat in lessons, listening to the teachers’ introductions to the year's curriculum, hearing them through a now familiar mental glass wall, Hermione thought back on the events of the summer. 

Things had been fine after the Battle. Along with everyone around her, she had revelled in the jubilation, joy and exhilaration of Voldemort’s fall. Her heart had soared with relief that Harry, Ron and her other friends had made it through the war alive. 

But then the funerals had started. And it had seemed as if they were never ending, a relentless stream of grief and sorrow and loss. She had started to feel tired – emotionally exhausted from witnessing the suffering of others, and from feeling the pain of it all herself. Until it seemed as if her feelings had started to dry up, as did her tears. She hadn’t thought that could happen – that her tears could dry up like a river bed in a drought. 

Embracing the encroaching numbness had seemed to be the only bearable thing to do. She’d had no strength left to fight it and so she’d let it wash over her like an anaesthetising wave. 

Should she have done anything different? She thought to herself as she wandered through the corridors, absent-mindedly following her peers to their next venue – another classroom, the Great Hall for lunch, the library. Was there something else she should have done, which meant she would have coped better? 

She’d known she probably needed to talk to someone about it all, and she’d tried. She’d tried talking to Ron. But he’d been coping with his own demons; his grief for Fred had hung about him like a heavy load. When she’d attempt to talk to him, he’d remain steely and quiet and would withdraw to walk the fields and fens surrounding the Burrow. 

Hermione felt that forcing him to talk was akin to depriving him of his own way of coping, and she couldn’t bear to exacerbate his suffering – there was far too much of it already – so she squashed her feelings away. But it had caused a rift between them. She had felt so close to him during the Battle, with the threat that death could irrevocably separate them at any moment, but his repeated solitary walks over the first few weeks of summer and his impenetrable quiet had widened an ever-growing gap between them. 

In the rare occurrences when Hermione was alone during the first week of term – in a quiet corner of the library, or just before going to sleep – she would think of her parents. 

She’d found them in Australia – Ron and Harry had come with her – but the reverse-Obliviate hadn’t worked. With a sense of urgency and despair, she’d sought permission to perform an Imperio on both of them, so that she could take them home to St Mungo’s where the best mind-healers worked and studied. As she’d taken away their autonomy, the guilt she’d felt at having interfered with their memories in the first place multiplied like a dark Gemini curse. 

The mind-healers had offered a tentative hope. The memories of her were still in her parents’ minds apparently, buried deep, it was just that their  _ conscious  _ minds were not aware of them. The most helpful strategy, Hermione had been told, was for her parents to be immersed in familiar  _ contexts  _ – contexts that related to her and their lost recollections. 

Hence, the healers performed several ‘suggestion charms’ on her parents. Subsequently, the Grangers ‘decided’ to move back to their home in Hertfordshire and take a lodger who needed somewhere to stay between college and university – a polite, bookish young woman called Hermione.

And so, about half-way through the summer, Hermione moved back to her childhood home, to share the house with parents who looked at her like she was a stranger. By the end of the summer disappointment had wrenched at Hermione’s heart, because she hadn’t stopped being anything else to her parents but a young woman preparing to go to university. 

It had been one of the reasons she’d decided to go back to Hogwarts – it was a relief to have an excuse to escape the curious looks her parents sent her way when they thought she wasn’t looking, and the furtive, whispered conversations: “She’s an odd girl, isn’t she? Sometimes she looks at me as if she knows something I don’t – as if she’s staring right through to my soul,” she’d over heard her mother saying once. 

“Oh Helen, that’s a little dramatic,” her father had replied affectionately. “She’ll be gone soon anyway and we can get back to normal, so no need to worry...I’m not sure why we decided to take a lodger in the first place...” her father had replied. 

Their words had felt like a punch in the gut. 

But when Hermione thought seriously about returning to Hogwarts, the idea seemed intolerable – to study in a place she’d seen her friends die in a myriad of painful ways. But she really  _ did  _ want to take her NEWTs – that, and regaining her parents’ memories, seemed to be the only two things she had any motivation for. 

Halfway through the summer, she’d met with McGonagall in a quiet café on Diagon Alley and asked if she could take her exams at the end of the academic year, without having to live or study within the castle walls. 

The new headmistress had smiled at her sadly. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I don’t think I can allow that. We really need all students to attend the relevant lessons....and it wouldn’t look good if you were seen to be given special treatment, you see…”

McGonagall had then pulled from her handbag a small, shiny badge with the letter ‘P’ embossed on it and passed it to Hermione as if it were some kind of compensation. Hermione didn’t know if she wanted it. The burden of the responsibility of being a Prefect added to the weight of multiple losses, and the combined load felt like it might crush her.

“There was serious consideration about making you Head Girl –”

“It’s fine – I don’t want –”

“But the students that were at school last year – they went through so much, you know – they did so  _ much  _ for the school when it was under attack from within.” McGonagall’s eyes glistened and her lips trembled. It was disarming – witnessing the normally stoic woman display such emotion. “It felt right for those that had lived through the last year of Hogwarts to be made Head Boy and Girl.” 

“Of course,” Hermione replied flatly, and only half listened whilst McGonagall explained how Neville Longbottom and Padma Patil would be taking up the roles. 

In earlier years, she would have felt disappointment and self-doubt at not having been granted the title of Head Girl, but now she just felt relief. 

And so she’d had no choice, really, but to return to Hogwarts. When Ron had decided that he was, instead, going to take up the offer of a fast-track Auror training programme and not return, Hermione had suggested they end things. Their relationship was already fragile, and she just hadn’t thought it could survive the distance. The passion she’d felt towards him up until the end of the war had half-heartedly ebbed and flowed over the summer until it was struggling to survive at all.

When she’d told him and seen the hurt and pain in his eyes, she’d hated herself, knowing she was the cause of it. 

“Is it because I left?” he’d said, his tone both defiant and regretful. “You can’t forgive me, can you?”

It had taken her a moment to understand what he’d meant, but then an image had come to her: of her screaming his name as he strode away into the dark of a forest. 

“What? No! It’s not that,” she’d protested. “You know I’ve forgiven you that…”

But his look of betrayal and confusion had remained, right until the day she’d left the Burrow to go and live with her parents. 

By the time she was unpacking her belongings in the bedroom of her childhood, which had been stripped of her old books and toys to look like the neutral room of a lodger, she’d felt as if she’d been bled dry of emotions.

Unintentionally, she’d lost herself in the Muggle world for those last few weeks before she returned to Hogwarts. One day she’d been walking back from the library, her arms full of poetry books and novels that she’d used to read and discuss with her mother – she’d thought that maybe she could initiate some conversation with her about them, that maybe it might dislodge a nugget of a memory in her mother’s mind – when she bumped into an old friend from her primary school – Felicity Fairweather. 

The ten-year-old Felicity had been popular, charming and cheerful, as her name implied. She’d never been one to name call and had occasionally tried to divert the teasing if it’d become too vitriolic, often giving Hermione a sympathetic smile as she’d yet again been left in tears by the ignorant cruelness of prepubescent girls. 

Felicity went on to invite her out for some drinks that evening and so that was how, as the sun set over the Chiltern Hills, Hermione found herself sitting in the beer garden of a Muggle pub and talking to one of Felicity’s friends about Russian literature. He was a few years older than Hermione, had a pleasant face and kind eyes and when she was alone with him later in the evening and he’d leant forward to kiss her, she’d let him. A week or so later, they’d had sex and Hermione had managed to get lost in it. 

She’d seen him frequently after that, their meetings usually accompanied by the consumption of an unnecessary amount of alcohol. She’d learnt a lot from him – about herself, her body, about men’s bodies, her likes and dislikes – but she always maintained that she didn’t want to continue their relationship after she went to ‘university’ in September. 

The physical sensations were all she felt. For those few weeks before returning to Hogwarts, she’d rode her numbness out on a crest of alcohol and sex and, when the latter two were gone, she was left with nothing again. 

Those weeks in the Muggle world had been like an escape to another universe, or another life, and when they’d come to an end, Hermione had to turn back to the broken world she’d managed to temporarily escape. 

She’d known she couldn’t avoid it forever – being a witch was an inherent part of her, it was woven through her soul, and she could not not deny that essential part of herself. So she faced the magical world again, even though it felt desecrated and sullied and it was hard to see how the fragments the war had left behind would ever fit together again.

So when she returned to Hogwarts for her eighth year, all she felt was an ever-present numbness, a surreal indifference, and a very occasional, half-hearted fluttering of irritation and anxiety.

So it was quite interesting that, by her first day of lessons, despite all the potential triggers in seeing and sleeping in the castle for the first time, it had been Draco Malfoy that had managed to ignite any feelings in her at all. 

* * *

Hermione stood on the parapets of the Astronomy Tower, her left arm looped around a column next to her in order to keep her steady as she gingerly leant forward, peering into the darkness below. There were normally protective charms in place to stop students doing what she was doing now, but she’d easily disabled them. 

It was late on the first Saturday night of the school year and so the darkness was thick, although the lights from the windows of the Tower gave off a subdued glow, giving her a dim view of the cobbled courtyard which lay metres below at the foot of the Tower. 

She wondered how long it would take for her body to hit the ground. What sound it would make if it were to collide with the stone. How many bones would crush. Whether her limbs would stick out at grotesque angles like Dumbledore's had. 

It was the photos that had made her bolt from the Gryffindor Common Room moments before. They’d been Parvati's idea and, rationally, Hermione had known it was a lovely one. To hang up photos of the ones that were lost, inside beautiful frames and in a pretty arrangement, just above the fireplace in the Common Room. Pictures of Lavender, of Colin and Fred. Of three other Gryffindors that had been victims of Tom Riddle’s relentless persecution. 

They’d sipped on Butterbeer as they surveyed the rich collection of Colin’s old photos that Dennis and the Creeveys had bequeathed them. There was one of Parvati and Lavender, their arms slung comfortably around each other’s shoulders, laughing delightedly at a long-forgotten joke, probably taken in their sixth year. Hermione was in some of the pictures: bent over Colin's shoulder at the Common Room table in one, helping him with his homework. She hadn’t remembered it being taken. And in another, with Fred and George, rolling her eyes as a bolt of fire flew over her head from one of the twins' practical jokes. 

Initially, there’d been a jovial atmosphere as they’d hung up the photos, with everyone else joining in, performing levitation and fixing charms, debating amicably on the pictures’ arrangements. But Hermione had hovered on the periphery of the group, unable to be buoyant when all she could see was a gaping red gash in Lavender’s neck, Colin’s body looking so tiny in death, the light dying from Fred’s eyes...

When the pictures were finally in place, they lit the candles that Parvati had arranged on the mantelpiece. One for each of the fallen.

“They’re magicked to never go out, as long as the person it’s burning for is remembered by the living,” Parvati had explained.

Each one had a small motif emblazoned on the side, indicating who it represented: a camera on one, a toilet seat on another, a sprig of lilac flowers... 

When all the candles were burning brightly, the group had taken several steps back from the fireplace, surveying their work. The atmosphere had changed then – they’d become subdued and thoughtful, the air between them laden with a thousand lost memories.

“It’s her laugh,” Seamus had said solemnly into the silence. “I really miss her laugh.” 

His voice had broken then and he’d held up his hand to hide his face as Dean unhesitatingly stepped beside him, wrapping his arm around his friend’s shoulder and squeezing him to him. Something had clenched at Hermione's heart and she’d unwittingly taken a step backwards, increasing the distance between herself and the group of mourners. 

Then Ginny, with tears swimming in her eyes, had murmured something about Fred that Hermione couldn’t hear, and Harry had pulled her to him and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. 

“He was too fucking young to die,” Neville had said softly, his eyes trained on a photo of Colin, and Hermione remembered how it had been Neville and Oliver Wood that had found his body. 

The sadness, grief and loss that permeated the room should have felt suffocating. But Hermione hadn’t felt any of it. She knew that there must be something wrong with her – to be enveloped in this numbness. The difference she felt between herself and her fellow housemates had intensified; it felt as if there was a gulf between them that could never be breached. She felt even more alone. 

Then she hadn’t been able to stand it anymore – she’d run from the room, the Fat Lady a blur in her peripheral vision, a concerned call from Ginny faint in her ears – and had hurried through the castle’s corridors. She’d found her feet taking her to the Astronomy Tower; she’d always been drawn to the wide expanse of stars that could be viewed from it.

When she’d ascended the Tower, she’d edged closer to the battlements and stepped up onto the low wall, grabbing hold of a nearby column for balance with her left hand, whilst holding her wand tightly in her right. She’d swayed dizzyingly at the seemingly infinite space in front of her, and a surge of adrenaline had flooded her veins. It was a feeling she hadn’t experienced for what felt like an age – and it was such a welcome relief from the dull, chronic ache of numbness. It was that which gave her the idea – to launch herself off the battlements and descend through the air so she could at least  _ feel  _ something…and stop herself with an Arresto Memento just before she hit the ground. 

She raised her wand arm ready, lifted her right foot off the parapet, exhilarated by the feel of it hovering in nothingness, loosened her grip on the column, bent her left knee ready to propel herself off – 

“What the _ fuck?! _ ” a voice cried out from behind her. 

There was a sudden scuffle of feet and a strong arm around her waist, pulling her violently off and away from the battlement walls. She fell onto the Tower’s floor, landing painfully on her back. The impact was such that her wand escaped her grasp – she heard it clatter away from her across the stones. There was a blur of blond hair in her eye-line; the silver and green of a school tie flew in front of her face –

It was the remains of the butterbeer, the remnant adrenaline, and the panic induced from the loss of her wand which meant her fight and flight instinct dominated – she frantically lashed out with her arms and kicked with her legs, managing to strike the attacker hard over the head – 

“Oww!  _ Shit _ , that hurt! Calm down, Granger! What the  _ actual _ fuck?!”

– and her wrists were suddenly pinned either side of her head by his hands, and she was lying on her back on the floor of the Astronomy Tower with Draco Malfoy on top of her. Her eyes focused on his – storm grey now in the dark of the night – and they stilled her. 

She rationalised that he was physically stronger than her and she didn’t have a wand, so she gave up the fight. The physical sparring, but not the verbal one.

“Get the fuck off me!”

“No.” His voice was firm, although his arms were trembling slightly, and she noticed sweat glistening on his forehead. He was scowling down at her, his face flushed. He's pissed off, she surmised. Again. When is he ever  _ not  _ pissed off with her? It must take quite a bit of energy to hate like Draco Malfoy hates her, she thought idly. 

“Malfoy. Let. Me.  _ Go _ .” She spat the words out fiercely. 

“So you can try and top yourself again?” he sneered. 

“What?! No!” Her voice rose; she was losing her fight with her own fury. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself, you  _ dickwad _ !” 

“Pretty much looked like it from where I was standing.”

His face loomed inches above hers, so close that the hair that was falling down from his head tickled her forehead. She could smell firewhiskey on his breath. It seemed that the Gryffindors weren’t the only ones that were celebrating a Saturday night then. Although she doubted the Slytherins would be conducting a memorial to the dead.

Hermione rolled her eyes in frustration and squirmed under Malfoy, trying to see if there was a weak spot she could take advantage of, to make her escape. But he just tightened his grip and increased the weight of his body on hers. Despite the fact that she desperately wanted to get out of the situation, she had to admit that there was something about being held – having a warm, solid body holding her down – that felt oddly containing – comforting even. 

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” she repeated. “Why do  _ you _ care, anyway?”

Something flickered in his eyes, so quickly she couldn’t read it.

“I  _ don’t _ care,” he replied bitterly. “But I really don’t want to be found at the top of the Astronomy Tower with a dead body at the bottom of it.”

“Yeah, I can see how that would look suspicious if it happened a  _ second _ time.”

“Exactly,” he replied unhesitatingly, seemingly unfazed by her acidic tone. “So what  _ were _ you up to, if not doing the world a favour by ridding it of your mardy face?” His eyes flicked up to where his hands were holding down her arms. “In order for me to let you go, you need to convince me that you're not going to hurt yourself.”

Hermione sighed.

“I was just…looking for an adrenaline rush,” she explained sheepishly; she knew that her real explanation was going to sound almost as crazy as attempted suicide.

“What?” he spat, scowling in confusion. 

“I was going to jump off the Tower but stop myself from hitting the ground with an Arresto Momentum...for the…rush,” she finished weakly. 

He gazed down at her intently. She could almost hear his mind processing this new information – recalibrating and adjusting his perceptions and beliefs. 

“That’s crazy. And reckless,” was his conclusion, said with a mixture of disdain and incredulity.

She shrugged. “Do  _ not _ overestimate how many fucks I give about what you think Draco Malfoy.” 

His lips quirked up at one corner, and in the silence that followed she couldn’t help but wonder what that tiny movement meant. His eyes flitted between hers as if searching for something, before he leaned down and brought his mouth to her ear. 

“The Gryffindor in you hasn’t  _ completely _ died then,” he hissed, causing the hairs on her neck to stand on end and a shiver to prickle at her spine. 

Alarmingly, the sensations were pleasant rather than uncomfortable, and she found herself inhaling sharply. 

She was suddenly much more aware of his body lying over hers, warm and strong. One of his legs was resting in between hers, his right hip pressing into her lower abdomen. For some inexplicable reason, she felt the heat of a blush warm her cheeks. His eyes drifted over her face, and she knew he’d noticed it. His lips did that annoying quirking thing again, and she battled to keep her expression as indifferent as possible.

“'What are  _ you _ doing here, anyway?” she asked, trying to shift the focus away from herself.

His eyes became guarded, and his annoying mouth turned down, which Hermione found rather satisfying. “I came here to… think…” His eyes flitted around her face, as if distracted. “I didn’t expect to see some crazy cat about to jump into oblivion.”

“Well, now you know I wasn’t trying to top myself, are you going to let me go?” She squirmed under him again and pushed her wrists up against his restraining hands.

His lips curled up into a half-smile. “Maybe… you’re quite the wriggler, aren't you?”

She wondered if he was trying to intimidate her. “You don’t scare me, Malfoy. You never have.” 

She arched her back and pushed her hips up into him in an attempt to make him move. If he just angled the other way –

“I know. Pity,” he said regretfully, which caused a renewed round of contempt to spark in her.

Then she felt it – him – against the top of her left thigh - him growing harder. She was horrified and repulsed, but those feelings were smothered somewhat by a pleasurable warmth that spread through her. She blamed the remaining butterbeer and the lingering adrenaline for the way her body betrayed her – for the rush of wet heat she felt between her own legs. 

They held each other’s gazes, both knowing that the other was aware of the growing bulge between them. 

“You’re  _ sick _ ,” she said eventually, trying to make her voice as contemptuous as possible, but it was frustratingly unconvincing. 

He chuckled shamelessly. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Granger. The vibrations of a broomstick can send it off.” 

Hermione tried to look as disdainful as possible. She felt a renewed urge to get away from him, and became acutely aware of the lack of her wand in her hand. The reminder of the loss of it sent a jolt of anxiety searing through her. Her thoughts raced through various options. 

In an attempt to pass countless empty hours whilst searching for Horcruxes, and because they’d all thought it might have been useful one day, Harry had taught her and Ron Muggle fighting. In case they ever lost their wands, he'd reasoned – ‘it's better to have some back up than nothing at all’. Harry had become well-practised at Muggle fighting during his summer holidays, defending himself from his cousin and his minions. Hermione had, as ever, been a conscientious student; she’d bruised Ron's ribs on one occasion and had given Harry a black eye on another. Unintentionally, of course.

Malfoy moved to his right slightly – it was the best chance she’d had so far – the angle was much better.  _ Aim for the eyes or the groin  _ – _ the soft, vulnerable parts,  _ she heard Harry's voice in her mind. Well, the eyes were out, so she launched her left knee up, aiming it right between Malfoy’s legs.

“Ahhhh!” He instantly released her wrists and sprung away from her, leaning back on his heels, caressing his groin. Her knee had obviously made its target. “You fucking  _ bitch _ !”

“I asked you to let me go. Twice,” her tone was unapologetic, as she inelegantly crawled away from him, scrambling for her wand. 

Her hand gratefully grasped around it and she felt a flood of relief, only then realising how anxious she’d been without it. She pulled herself to her feet, straightened her shoulders defiantly, and headed to the stairs. She had nothing more to say to Malfoy. 

“Nice one, Granger,” Malfoy retorted bitterly before she started to make her descent. 

She turned back to look at him. He was on his feet too, his face flushed and chest rising and falling as he took in quick breaths, his hands trembling slightly. The sight of him reminded her of herself when she started to panic. Her knee-in-the-groin must have been more painful than she thought, she surmised uncomfortably. 

But she pushed the thought away and instead clung onto the anger she felt at being restrained by him for so long, at how this boy had made her feel in the past: of how he’d wished her dead when the Chamber had been opened, the countless ‘mudbloods’ that he’d flung her way throughout their years at school, of how he’d apparently gloated and glowed when he’d had the Dark Mark burnt into his arm. It was, Hermione had learnt, so much easier to feel anger than guilt. 

“Enjoy your  _ thinking _ space,” she couldn't help but say, her words caustic. “There are such happy memories for me here. I can’t come here without remembering how I dodged three killing curses on those stairs – one cast by your own father, incidentally. Of how I would have died if it wasn’t for liquid luck. Of how Fenrir Greyback slashed Bill Weasley’s face open. Of Dumbledore falling to his death. Oh, and we have  _ you  _ to thank for that, don’t we? Because you spent a whole fucking year working out how to let a load of Death Eaters in to the school.  _ Nice one, _ Malfoy,” she echoed his sarcasm before turning away and stomping down the stairs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your kudos, comments, thoughts and constructive feedback are cherished and treasured!


	5. Mudblood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazing alphabetas!

_ Oh, my life / Is changing every day / In every possible way _

_ And oh, my dreams / It's never quite as it seems / Never quite as it seems  _

_ I know I've felt like this before / But now I'm feeling it even more / Because it came from you  _

_ Then I open up and see / The person falling here is me / A different way to be _

\- Dreams, The Cranberries. 

* * *

“It is  _ entirely  _ your fault we’re late for Muggle Studies and I’m  _ really  _ not happy about it,” Draco grumbled to Blaise, as the two boys did a kind of walk-jog down the corridor, with Theo hurrying along in front of them. None of them would run. That would be too undignified. But, with the relentless fuck-ups that had littered his first week of school, Draco really didn’t want to be late for Muggle Studies, of all the bloody subjects. “I will  _ not  _ keep a lookout for you anymore whilst you have some fifth year Ravenclaw suck you off behind a fucking tapestry –” 

“I didn't think she’d take so long,” Blaise replied amiably through hurried breaths, as they rounded a corner; they were only a few metres from the door of the Muggle Studies classroom now. “She kept edging me you see, which was fantastic, but took for-fucking-ever. Anyway, she wasn’t a fifth year, she was a  _ sixth  _ year, and she didn’t suck me off,” – Theo pushed open the door of the classroom just as Blaise clarified, loudly and clearly: “It was just a  _ handjob _ !” 

The three Slytherin boys burst into the classroom just as Blaise made his declaration and were met with a stunned silence. Draco noticed a disarmingly young man in Muggle clothes standing at the front of the room, his eyebrows raised in a kind of benign curiosity. The lesson had clearly started already and the students had all turned at the boys’ entrance and were now staring unabashedly at the latecomers. 

“Well, despite the fact it was  _ just  _ a handjob, I hope it was worth missing the start of this lesson for?” the young man asked wryly. 

“Sorry we’re late, Professor,” Theo apologised, his voice smooth and his composure unruffled, as if the excruciatingly embarrassing exchange that had just taken place had never happened. 

Draco and Blaise were probably the only ones that could see past Theo’s apparent nonchalance and note the rigid set of his shoulders; Theo was adept at pushing down his emotions in order to act as the occasion required. He often appeared cool, calm and aloof, but Draco knew that deep down there was a cauldron of bubbling emotions Theo was skilled at keeping a lid on. It was something that Draco also did, of course, but not even  _ he  _ suppressed his emotions as much as Theo . 

To Draco's relief, the teacher didn’t seem keen on interrogating Blaise on his recent sexual escapades. He merely nodded shortly and gestured to some empty desks. “Please take a seat.” 

The classroom wasn’t full – Muggle Studies was one of the least popular NEWTs – and thankfully, there were three empty seats next to each other at the back of the room. As the boys shuffled towards the desks, Draco braved a surreptitious scan of the still-staring faces of his fellow students, quickly processing the high number of Muggle-borns and half-bloods in the class, which was to be expected – Muggle Studies was seen as an easy subject for them. 

His insides tightened as he spotted Granger, who was looking at him with those same dead eyes that had gotten under his skin in DADA, her face expressionless except for a subtle hint of something like accusation. Her eyes hadn’t been so dead a few nights ago on the Astronomy Tower, though – they had  _ sparked  _ then, and Draco had taken an odd kind of satisfaction in the fact they had come  _ alive  _ again, even if it had been due to the sheer vitriolic disdain that Granger had for him.

As the three boys took their seats, Draco felt his lips twist into a grimace as he remembered his tussle with Granger on the Tower. He’d totally messed up his exposure exercise. He hadn’t intended to go to the Tower that evening, but then Pansy and Blaise had started handing round firewhiskeys. The false courage the drink had given him had meant he’d done the almost exact opposite of what Alethea had suggested: he’d gone to the Tower before they’d finished working through the memory in their sessions – at  _ night _ , and on his  _ own,  _ for fuck’s sake. 

He  _ had  _ intended to just stay on the threshold, at the top of the stairs, but when he’d seen Granger about to launch herself off the battlements, his body had reacted instinctively and before he knew it he was holding her down on the floor of the Tower, his hands grasping round her slim wrists –

“I was just introducing myself,” the young man at the front of the room smiled warmly at the class – 

Holding her slim, delicate wrists, with her warm, lithe body wriggling under him – 

“I’m Benjamin Battersby. And I am not yet a professor. I am still doing my training, so you can address me as sir, Mr Battersby, or even just Ben!” 

For some reason, Draco hadn’t wanted to let her go. He hadn’t wanted her hurting herself, of course, because that would have caused all kinds of trouble, but even when he’d been convinced she wouldn’t, he still, inexplicably and confusingly, hadn’t wanted to let her go. 

“I am Muggle-born and after I finished at Hogwarts, I went to a Muggle university – Bristol, in fact – and studied Muggle Politics, Philosophy and Economics. I’ve now started my training as a Hogwarts professor.” 

Well, that explained why he looked like he was just out of nappies. Mr Ben, or Batty, or whatever the fuck his name was – Draco had been too distracted by his memories of Saturday night to register it – turned to write on the blackboard. 

“Merlin, what a  _ beautiful  _ arse,” Blaise whispered, and Draco noted how his eyes were trained on Mr Ben’s behind. 

Draco rolled his eyes just as Theo hissed, “Blaise, does your cock  _ never  _ switch off?” 

Blaise merely smirked and continued to look straight ahead as Batterboy turned back to the class. 

“Okay. So!” their new teacher declared. “I understand that your teaching of Muggle Studies was somewhat disrupted last year.”

A whisper and stifled snort came from the direction Thomas, that annoying little Gryffindor fucker, who was sitting next to Granger.  _ Why  _ were Gryffindors so annoying? 

“Something wrong?” Battersby –  _ that  _ was his name – queried. 

Granger and Thomas exchanged a look. Then, after a reticent silence, Granger spoke in the same flat, dull voice that she’d spoken with in DADA. A voice that Draco was beginning to hate more than the know-it-all sing-song intonation that had come out her mouth for the first six years of their schooling. 

“Well, Dean was just saying that his teaching was indeed disrupted, considering he wasn’t allowed to be at school at all.” 

Battersby’s mouth turned down and he nodded sagely. “Yes, of course... And those that  _ were  _ here, what kind of things did you learn – or rather, were you  _ told  _ about Muggles?” 

There was an uncomfortable silence. Motherfucking Merlin, was this going to be a repetition of the excruciating Q and A that had taken up half of their DADA lesson? Why must everyone insist on raking through the past? Draco wouldn’t even  _ be  _ here if he had a choice, but studying NEWT level Muggle Studies was another condition of his and Blaise’s sentencing. Which is why he’d really not wanted to be late for the first lesson. 

Although, there was a part of Draco that actually  _ wanted  _ to study the subject. There was so much about Muggles he didn’t know but had always wondered about. And before, he’d never been able to express that curiosity, at least not to his parents, for fear of being shunned or shamed, or labelled a Blood Traitor. It had been the same for Theo who, now that his father was dead, didn’t have to hide the fact that he was truly interested in the subject. Theo had been secretly researching Muggle culture for years, surreptitiously reading Muggle books in the Hogwarts library, Madam Pince being the only person aware of Theo’s illicit interest. Blaise appeared ambivalent about the class. But then Blaise was ambivalent about most academic pursuits. 

“Mr Malfoy? Could you outline for me some of what was covered in this subject last year?” 

Why the bloody fuck was  _ he  _ being called upon? He felt the stabbing of pain just behind his right eye – the ominous beginnings of a migraine. 

“Erm...it was all inaccurate, sir,” Draco started awkwardly, acutely aware that all the eyes in the room had turned to him once again. “Just...stuff like Muggle diseases, how…Muggles are all dirty...and intellectually inferior...and stuff.” 

“Hmm,” Battersby said brusquely. “So, pureblood supremacist propaganda? Effectively?” 

“Exactly,” Draco agreed, grateful he didn’t have to continue. 

To his relief, his goggling fellow students turned back to the front of the class. All except Granger, who continued to stare at him, seemingly unblinkingly.

“Good summary, sir,” Blaise chipped in cheerfully, giving Battersby a mock salute. 

“Thank you, Mr Zabini.” 

“Oh, you can call me Blaise.” 

Draco turned to Blaise to see him gifting Battersby with one of his disarmingly charming grins. At the same time, he noticed Granger’s gaze finally leave him to look down at her parchment, and felt his shoulders relax. 

In response to Blaise, Battersby opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again, seemingly at a loss for words. Draco noticed a blooming flush of pink creep up the teacher’s neck to his cheeks. It was the first time he had faltered since they’d arrived. 

It was incredible, Draco thought with a mixture of amusement and incredulity, how brazen and shameless Blaise sometimes was. But there was another side to him, Draco knew – the whole of the DADA class had seen it when that little Irish shit had accused Blaise of being a rapist: on very rare occasions, when Blaise felt wronged, he could become extremely angry. 

Since their fifth year, Blaise had garnered a reputation, inside and outside of Slytherin House, for sex.  Bisexual and promiscuous, he had effectively shagged his way through his fifth and sixth year. But last year, Blaise had been surprisingly chaste. When questioned about this, he’d retorted dryly: "Having someone suck you off when you might have to curse them the next day kind of dampens your libido."

So even Blaise had limits, it seemed. And what he’d always prided himself on was that his partners were always more than willing  – were  _ always  _ consenting  – which was why, Draco understood, the accusation of rape offended something deep within Blaise’s moral core. And it had been proven unequivocally false  –  even by a Wizengamot that was biased against Blaise, for fuck’s sake. 

Draco hadn’t always understood Blaise so well. They had only become close over the last year. Through a succession of small happenings and subtle observations, under the shadow of the Carrows’ reign of the school, Theo, Draco and Blaise had seemed to silently recognise something common in each other. An unspoken understanding had slowly formed between them, an understanding that had been too dangerous to voice out loud because it went against their families, against the Carrows, against Voldemort. But an understanding which, nonetheless, formed the basis of what Draco supposed was friendship. 

Although, he still wasn’t entirely sure about the friendship part because, before Theo and Blaise, he didn’t think he’d had a true friend in his life. Crabbe and Goyle had been little more than minions. Hence, the experience of navigating an actual friendship was still new to Draco. 

“Right, well, considering your lack of adequate education last year, we have a lot to catch up on,” Battersby was now saying. “You should have received an outline of the curriculum going forward. We’re going to start with Muggle technology and economics – two separate but inextricably linked topics. Then move onto culture later in the term – music, literature, art, etc. So! What would you say are the most significant Muggle advances in technology of the past two hundred years?” 

“Electricity?” someone suggested. 

“Yes!” Battersby charmed a piece of chalk to write the word on the blackboard, as other students called out further suggestions: 

“The steam engine.”

“Those computer things?” 

“Cars.” 

“Aeroplanes are pretty cool too. I’d rather fly in them than on a broom.” 

“Right! And why  _ don’t  _ magical kind have planes? Why have we not acquired such means as huge flying boxes of metal, that would no doubt make some of our lives easier?” 

“Because of Seer Gaia’s Earthly Prophecies,” Blaise offered enthusiastically. 

“Hmm-hmm, yes, Mr Zabini – er – Blaise. And what about that?” 

Draco knew far more about Gaia’s prophecy than the Muggle shit they’d just been talking about –  _ every  _ witch and wizard knew about Gaia’s prophecies. 

There was a pause before Theo spoke up. 

“Seer Gaia had several powerful visions between the years 1829 to 1840, when the Muggle industrial revolution took hold. She saw that the consumption of coal and other fossil fuels for energy, or the making of plastic and stuff, would lead to a warming of the planet, what Muggles are now calling ‘global warming’. And that this warming would set about a chain of events which will ultimately destroy the ecosystems of the world, and human beings with it. 

“She was one of the most respected Seers of all time, and so the Ministry heeded her warnings and chose not to partake in the same types of industry that Muggles were pursuing. The Ministry put a very limited cap on the consumption of fossil fuels and the use of non-biodegradable materials, like plastics.” 

Theo’s years of self-directed Muggle Studies was paying off, it seemed. Draco felt even more inadequate at his housemates’ articulate contribution. 

“Hmm-hmm...exactly! So we’re stuck with feather quills rather than bic biros,” Battersby summed up. Draco only had a vague idea what a ‘biro’ was, and even less of an idea of what a ‘bic’ was. “And knowing what we know now, do we think that Seer Gaia’s prophecy had some truth in it?” 

There was a murmuring of affirmative responses. 

“It seems that even Muggles are coming to realise that how they’ve treated the Earth and its resources is, indeed, leading to its destruction,” Battersby said. “But nonetheless, what are the advantages of electricity?” 

“Like, how you can listen to music – walkmans! And CDs!” Thomas declared enthusiastically. 

Again, Draco had no clue what he was on about. But that was why he was here – to learn about all this Muggle shit. As the lesson went on, Draco tried to concentrate on it as much as possible, but he found his attention constantly drawn to the pile of unruly curls that was the back of Granger’s head. 

It wasn’t that she was doing, or saying, anything particularly distracting. She wasn’t constantly leaping out her seat to answer a question, her hand waving intrusively in the air, or scrawling irritatingly and frantically on her parchment, as she’d done in previous years. 

Ironically, it was the very fact she  _ wasn’t  _ doing any of these things that distracted Draco so much – the fact that she’d go for minutes just sitting, still and unmoving, staring vacantly in front of her at something no one else could see. Occasionally, she’d move – to absent-mindedly rub her left forearm, or to clasp her wand in her hand, as if checking she still had it. Sometimes she’d pick up her quill and slowly write something down, but the movements were devoid of the energy and enthusiasm that had previously been so typical of her. 

What the fuck was wrong with her? 

* * *

A few days later, just before dinner, Draco was walking the grounds of Hogwarts, brooding on thoughts of his first week of school, when he rounded a corner of the castle to find that a Ravenclaw and a Gryffindor – they looked like third years – had backed Freddie Flint, Marcus’ younger brother and second year Slytherin, against the wall. 

“Bet your filthy whore of a mother got on her knees for that noseless nutcase and begged to suck his cock,” the Ravenclaw spat down at a cowering Freddie. 

“Don’t you dare talk about my mother like that!” Freddie retorted. His hands were empty and Draco saw that the Gryffindor had two wands clasped in his fist.

“Okay boys, maybe that’s enough,” Draco attempted to make his voice as authoritative as possible to try and compensate for the fact that, due to his wand ban, he was magically impotent. 

The two second years turned to him. The Ravenclaw sneered in such a disdainful way that Draco was impressed despite himself; it was a Slytherin-standard sneer. “Piss off. This is none of your business.” 

Draco recognised him then: Robert Bones, Amelia Bones’ nephew. It was known that Marcus and Freddie’s father had probably been involved in the assault against the Boneses. 

“Well, it kind of  _ is  _ my business now I’m here,” Draco drawled regretfully. 

There was a tense silence as Draco and the two second years eyed each other, whilst Freddie’s eyes flitted anxiously between his assailants and his potential rescuer. The anticipation was broken by the two second years raising their wands, pointing them at Draco and saying in unison: 

“Impedimenta!” 

“Immobilius!” 

Draco was hurled backwards against the wall and, to his annoyance, found he could not bloody move. Over the following minutes, Draco had no choice but to watch helplessly whilst the little third year shits continued to goad and taunt Freddie. But rather than getting scared, Draco could see that Freddie was getting more and more riled. 

“Fuck off!” Freddie cried at one point, making a feeble attempt to push his way out of the small circle the students had trapped him in. 

The Gryffindor made an infuriatingly patronisingly tutting noise and violently pushed Freddie back against the wall. 

“Get your filthy  _ mudblood  _ hands off of me!” Freddie declared as his back hit the stone wall.

At exactly the same time, someone else came striding round the corner, someone with a familiar flounce to her stride and a mane of wild frizz. 

Draco watched as Hermione Granger froze on the spot a metre or so from the group, her eyes wide and wand clasped in front of her. In contrast to the dulled expression Draco had started to get used to, her eyes flashed in anger and defiance. Again, although it indicated danger, it was also comfortably familiar – to see that spark in her eyes that had so often been there before the war. 

“Levicorpus!” she cried, pointing her wand at Freddie, who immediately shot several metres up into the air. 

Then Granger abruptly swished her wand in a tight circular movement, causing Freddie to tip upside down. The Slytherin let out a small yelp of terror. 

“ _ What _ did you say?!” Granger screeched, her eyes fixed intently on the first year. 

“I – I didn’t mean it!” Freddie cried, his face red and tone scared. 

“Then why on earth would you  _ say  _ such a word?!” 

Draco noticed that Granger’s breathing had quickened and her face had become flushed. Alarmingly, she started making tiny circular movements with her wand and Freddie started spinning around slowly. Robert Bones and his annoying little sidekick laughed mercilessly at the sight, whilst Draco fought desperately – and futilely – against the Immobulus spell that was keeping him paralysed. 

“It – it just came out but I – Merlin, please let me down, I’m going to be sick!” 

Draco looked at Granger, silently pleading for her to let the boy down. If Freddie vomited in that position, it wasn’t going to be pretty. And he was in danger of choking, being turned around like that.

Just then, a sixth person rounded the corner, tall and with a sweeping green skirt and black boots that crunched authoritatively on the gravel. Draco could not decide whether this was a good or bad turn of events. Probably bad. 

“What on  _ earth  _ is going on?!” McGonagall exclaimed, her eyes darting around the group. 

Then, in an impressively quick succession of movements, she flicked out her wand and pointed it at Freddie. The boy’s body turned upright and descended to the ground, Granger's wand was whipped from her hand and flew into McGonagall’s, just as Freddie’s was wrenched from Bones’, soared through the air and landed with a clatter at Freddie’s feet. Lastly, and to his relief, Draco felt the paralysing hex lift and relief swept over him as he regained full control of his muscles once more. 

“ _ Miss _ Granger, what in  _ heaven’s  _ name were you thinking!? No  _ matter  _ the transgression, we cannot conduct such spells on younger students – on  _ any  _ students! You know your actions are contrary to the conduct we expect from pupils – especially prefects, who should be setting an example!” 

Draco watched as the fire left Granger’s eyes. Her face no longer bore defiance and anger but was guarded and uncertain. Her arms were trembling and her breath came in quick gasps. 

“This will not do!” McGonagall continued. “I want to see you all in my office immediately! Including you, Mr Malfoy!” 

Draco’s heart sank at McGonagall’s words. Why, in the name of Salazar’s saggy ballsack, was he relentlessly finding himself in these bullshit situations? As he turned along with the others to follow McGonagall into the castle he glanced at Granger, but she determinedly avoided his gaze. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m aware Hermione’s actions may seem a little out of character here, but there’s a really good reason/s why she responds in this way, which will be explained in the next couple of chapters :o). 
> 
> Your kudos, comments, thoughts and constructive feedback are cherished and treasured!


	6. High

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazing alphabetas!

_I'm going out for a while / So I can get high with my friends / I will..._

_I'm going out for a while / Don't wait up 'cause I won't be home_

– High, Feeder 

* * *

“You three, stay here!” McGonagall gestured to the younger students as they reached the bottom of the spiral staircase that led up to her office. “Mr Malfoy, Miss Granger – follow me.” 

Hermione trudged up the stairs after McGonagall, feeling Malfoy’s eyes burning into her back as he followed her. She was still processing the fact that he’d even been at the scene; she hadn’t even noticed him until McGonagall had arrived. Come to think of it, she hadn’t really noticed much at all. She’d just heard that word, _mudblood_ – and her heart had been in her throat, pounding in her ears, thoughts racing chaotically through her mind, and all her senses had narrowed and sharpened in on the danger – no, not the danger, she knew that now – rather, on the boy that had uttered the word.

She knew now that she'd overreacted. It hadn’t been right, what she’d done. But then people shouldn’t go throwing the word ‘mudblood’ around like that. As she climbed the stairs and her heart rate slowed, she found her mind becoming foggier again, felt herself becoming separate from the rest of the world, and welcomed the feeling of numbness that returned to her as a result. It was so much more tolerable than feeling as if her heart was going to explode from her chest.

After they entered McGonagall’s office, the headmistress swept behind her desk and sat down in her chair, upright and stiff, as Hermione and Draco stood side by side facing her. 

“Out of the two of you, who was at the scene first?” McGonagall's voice was stern and short. 

Hermione’s heart stuttered up again as she realised she didn’t even know the answer. 

“I was,” Malfoy stated and Hermione both hated and envied the calm in his voice. 

“Then Draco, please tell me what happened, from your point of view.” 

Hermione kept her gaze on a neat pile of parchment on McGonagall’s desk as Malfoy described how the two third years had bullied Frederick Flint, about the vile things they had said about his mother. She started to feel a dull sense of regret as she learnt of the context of the young Slytherin’s outburst.

“Thank you, Draco,” McGonagall said once Malfoy had finished. “And Hermione, what is your version of events?” 

Hermione took a deep breath. “I walked around the corner just as Frederick Flint called the Gryffindor boy a mudblood. I just –” How could she explain the jolt of fear she had felt on hearing the word? The rapid narrowing of her senses? “I suppose I overreacted and cast a levitation spell impulsively. Which I understand now I shouldn’t have done. And then – you arrived.” 

McGonagall raised her eyebrows. Hermione wasn’t sure if it was a gesture of disbelief, disappointment or confusion. Maybe all three. 

“Hermione, I will have to take thirty points from Gryffindor for this.”

It sounded so absurd, so juvenile and adolescent, the giving and receiving of house points. So laughable, in fact, that Hermione couldn’t help the next words slip out from her mouth, in a flat voice that she was rapidly getting used to hearing from herself: “I couldn’t care less.” 

Malfoy emitted an odd coughing sound that Hermione quickly realised was a stifled laugh. At the same time, McGonagall’s eyebrows rose higher, something Hermione hadn’t thought was possible. 

“And we may have to think about your prefectship, Ms Granger.” 

“Fine,” Hermione said dully. 

She found her hands fumbling with her prefect badge, unpinning it from her jumper and tossing it lamely onto the desk between her and McGonagall. There was a tense silence as all three of them looked down at the badge as it spun on its pin, the shiny ‘P’ flashing intermittently in the light. 

There was another noise from Malfoy. A snigger that he didn’t even attempt to hide this time. 

“Miss Granger, am I correct in understanding you are relinquishing your prefect role?”

“I thought you were taking it from me?”

“No. I merely said that we need to think about how you are managing the role. You used a levitation spell _combined_ with a spinning one on a younger student. You know very well that no such magic should be used on _any_ other students, except in the rare circumstances in which one has to defend oneself.” 

“I _was_ defending myself!” The words burst forth from the irrational, primal part of her mind before she could stop them, and she immediately realised how ridiculous they sounded. She hadn’t actually been at risk from Frederick Flint, she hadn’t actually been in _danger_ , but she'd reacted as if she’d been in the middle of the Battle of Hogwarts, for Merlin’s sake. 

McGonagall was silent and still, her gaze flitting between Hermione and Malfoy. Hermione wished someone would say something, just to banish her own stupid words from echoing about the room. Something flickered in McGonagall’s eyes, as if she was understanding something. 

McGonagall turned to Malfoy. “Thank you for your report of what you witnessed, and your attempt to de-escalate the situation, Draco. Would you mind leaving us now?”

There was another silence, and Hermione sensed Draco still, as if in surprise. 

“I can go?” Draco rasped out, his voice suspicious. 

“Yes, Draco, you can go.” McGonagall’s mouth quirked up, as if she were suppressing a smile. 

“Right.”

As Malfoy turned to leave, Hermione kept her gaze straight ahead but she felt his eyes linger on her for a long, uncomfortable moment before she sensed him move away and heard the door of McGonagall’s office open and close. 

McGonagall’s features softened slightly as she reached down and picked up Hermione’s discarded badge from her desk. “Hermione, I would like you to continue being prefect for Gryffindor House if that is something you would like?” 

A twinge of regret panged within Hermione as she looked at the badge. A small part of her – the part that meant she continued to get out of bed every morning, to get washed, to go to breakfast in the Great Hall – still cared about being a prefect. “Yes. Okay.” 

“Hermione,” McGonagall said again. There was a gentleness hovering around the edges of McGonagall’s normally stern voice, which meant Hermione found it hard to look in her eyes. She kept her gaze down at the desk, focused on the wood’s swirling patterns of grain. “I know this year is no doubt going to be hard for you. I'm wondering if you're finding it harder to settle back at school than anticipated? I think it would be a good idea if you saw our school mind-healer.” 

Hermione’s eyes darted back up to McGonagall. A mind-healer? Did McGonagall think her mind was broken in some way?

“I would really like you to go – even just for an initial session.” There was a hint of something like pleading in the rise of her voice of McGonagall’s voice. 

It seemed easier for Hermione to just give in. 

“Fine. Okay, Headmistress. I’ll go.” 

* * *

When Hermione descended to the corridor at the bottom of the stairs of McGonagall’s office, her stomach flipped oddly as she saw Malfoy leaning nonchalantly against the wall opposite, apparently waiting for her. 

His eyes flickered down to her reinstated prefect badge and a twitch of a sneer played on his lips. She had no idea what he found so amusing; she never really knew what he was thinking and it was beginning to annoy her. Just like everything else about him. 

She kept her face as expressionless as possible and wordlessly turned and walked away from him down the corridor. 

To her burgeoning irritation, he pushed himself away from the wall and followed her. 

“So, what’s with the good-girl-gone-bad thing?” he mocked. “Is that what you’re trying to pull off here, along with your prefect badge? ‘Cos it’s not convincing me.” 

What the _actual_ fuck was he on about? 

“I'm not trying to pull anything off,” she spat. She thought again of what had happened with Frederick Flint, trying to make sense of it. “You shouldn’t underestimate the power of language. _No one_ should use that word – not after everything that’s happened.”

“Granger, they’re using it _because_ of everything that’s happened.” 

“What?” Hermione quickened her pace, trying to get away from Malfoy and his nonsensical words. “I mean, I know that word is one of your favourites, isn't it? I bet it still just rolls off your tongue whenever you can get away with it –”

Malfoy quickly swung around in front of her and halted abruptly, leaving Hermione no choice but to stop too. 

“Granger.” His voice was no longer mocking, but hard and serious. “You have no idea, do you? Whilst you and the twat twins were on your camping trip last year, you have no idea what happened at this school, do you?”

Hermione seethed. There were so many things wrong with what he’d just said, she didn’t know where to start. 

“Don’t call them that! And you know as well as I do that last year for us was far from a barrel of laughs, you were _there_ for some of it –” 

“Have you noticed your mate Finnigan's clusterfuck of a hand?” Malfoy interrupted her, as if he hadn’t heard her at all. 

Hermione faltered. “What?” Why was he talking about Seamus? 

“That he has a finger missing? Have you noticed?” Malfoy insisted. 

“Yes,” she answered cautiously. “I assumed he'd got injured during the battle.” 

Malfoy shook his head, a tight smile – or possibly a grimace – pulling his lips up. 

“No, Granger. That wasn’t the battle. Maybe you should ask him how he lost his finger. Might give you a new perspective on this shitstorm you've dragged me through.”

Then he was turning and striding away from her, which was, ironically, more infuriating than when he had been following her down the corridor. 

“Hey! Why don’t _you_ tell me if you think it's so important?” she called after him. 

He stopped, stood for a moment with his back to her, then turned to face her again, as she walked towards him, closing the gap between them once more. His eyes were hard but he nodded his head shortly, as if conceding, then began talking. 

“Last year, one of the many new rules – and believe me there were _many_ – was that we _had_ to refer to Muggleborns as ‘mudbloods’– in the corridors, in lessons, in our fucking _sleep_ – otherwise we'd be punished. It became commonplace surprisingly quickly, only took a few weeks for even the Hufflepuffs to stop gagging when they said it. Even your band of Potter arselickers – most of them chose not to fight _that_ particular battle. 

“Except, in the autumn term last year, we were given a Muggle Studies essay about the dangers of breeding with Muggles and the undesirability of half-blood offspring. Finnigan refused to use the term ‘mudblood’ in his essay. He wrote ‘Muggleborn’ repeatedly instead. He got a detention. Three minutes of Crucio from Marcus Flint. And Finnigan had to write the essay again. Which he did, but he did the same thing – wrote ‘Muggleborn’ every time he should have written ‘mudblood’.” 

Malfoy rolled his eyes and shook his head disbelievingly, continuing in an agitated tone. “Bloody lion pride. Fucking reckless. So Alecto made it so Finnigan would never be able to write again with that hand – his dominant hand, his then _wand_ hand – she cut his finger off. Was going to cut his hand off but he – quite sensibly, in my opinion – caved. Said the correct term was ‘mudblood’. Had to declare you were a mudblood, that Thomas, his best mate, was a mudblood, in front of the whole class.” 

Malfoy took a deep breath and continued in a more sombre tone. “You could see how much he hated it but it was the only way she wasn't going to cut his whole bloody hand off. Fucked up his casting for a bit too, until he learnt to compensate with his other hand. And _he_ got off lightly. There was a guy at the Ministry that kept saying it, a junior official. _He_ got his tongue cut out.”

Malfoy paused to take another breath. “And the younger students – the first years, like Freddie – they were the most frightened of all of us, and the most likely to be influenced. If you were going to get tortured or mutilated for not using a word, you'd start using it too. Until it becomes as natural as breathing. It became so commonplace some people, especially the younger children, forgot it was an insult and saying it became a habit.” 

Malfoy drew back from her slightly, surveying her with an assessing look, and continued bitterly. “I thought you'd be clever enough to know about shit like brainwashing and indoctrination, Granger.” 

A feeling had been emerging deep from within Hermione as she’d listened to Malfoy’s story: guilt. A twisted, sickening guilt. But she was so sick of feeling guilty, it had been a feeling that had dominated her summer – all through the funerals – suffocating and relentless. 

“I – I didn’t know. I didn’t realise.” she said quietly. 

“Maybe get your head out of your own arse every now and again and you might. If there's one thing the war taught me, it’s that self-righteousness and ignorance are _not_ a good combination, Granger.” Malfoy pulled at the strap of his bag, re-adjusting it on his shoulders, and his mouth turned up into a smile – a genuinely amused one this time. “Your hexing was pretty impressive though,” he finished, before turning from her once more and sauntering away.

* * *

  
“I heard…Neville Longbottom's screwing…Hannah Abbott,” Blaise's words were thick and slow, but then they _were_ on their third spliff, which Blaise was just passing to Theo. 

The three boys were lying side by side on the roof of the Divination Tower, staring up at a dark sky. Blaise had suggested they go to the Astronomy Tower but Draco had, of course, vetoed that. He hadn’t gone back since that night with Granger.

“Does that make him a…” Draco paused. Talking was taking quite a lot of concentration. “Huffluffuffer?” No, that wasn’t quite right. “Hufflepluck…” No, that wasn’t right either. “Hufflefucker!” Yes! That was it! “Does that make him a _Hufflefucker_?” 

They all laughed because, really, it was pretty hilarious. 

“I get that, I _get_ that!” Blaise declared enthusiastically. 'Hufflepuff _fucker_ . Hufflefucker! You…like, made a rhyme. That's _awesome_ ,” he finished earnestly.

“Who's a Hufflefusser?” Theo queried. 

They were all silent for a moment because none of them could seem to remember, which bothered Draco because they were only _just_ talking about it, weren't they? Merlin, this shit must be strong. They'd bought it from Zacharius Smith who'd bought it from Susan Bones who'd got it from Hannah Abbott who'd been gifted some from Neville Longbottom. 

“Longblossoms!” Draco exclaimed. And then burst out laughing at his error. The others joined in, although Draco wasn’t sure if they knew what they were laughing about. “I mean…Lommsbotts…” More laughter. _Concentrate, Draco._ “Long…bottom…Longbottom!”

“What about him?”

'He's the Huffleplucker…fucker…” 

Oh. Whatever. 

Longbottom – apparently he was growing cannabis in a corner of a greenhouse somewhere, telling Sprout it was a private Herbology project he was working on, and Seamus Finnigan was helping him with the business side of things. They couldn’t deal with them directly of course, which is why they had to go through the ridiculously long trading route they had.

“Long…bottom seems to be…finally…growing a pair.” Draco remarked as Theo passed the spliff to him. 

“Think that happened with the…” Theo paused at such length Draco thought he wasn’t going to continue, but then he finally concluded: “The huge fucking snake and sword thing…” 

“Hmm...Longbottom’s pair...and sword…” It seemed Blaise’s mind was going down a familiar path, which induced more laughter from Draco and Theo.

“It was a turn of…a turn of phrase…” Draco managed. “Words are so….hard…right now.” And he laughed a little more, although he wasn't sure why. Maybe because it was quite funny, how ridiculously hard it was to form simple sentences.

“Words are…fuckng awesome…” Theo opined, with a hint of wonder in his voice. “How they…make sense…or don't make sense…the power of language…”

 _The power of language_...an image flashed across Draco’s mind from earlier that day: indignant eyes, pouting pink lips, flushed cheeks.

“Granger…” The word tumbled quietly from his lips before he could stop it. 

“What…about her?” Theo asked, much to Draco’s chagrin – he’d hoped they hadn’t heard him. 

Draco would normally have changed the subject but his thinking was so much slower than normal and the cannabis had all but dismantled his mental walls. The conversation he’d had with Granger after she’d emerged from McGonagall’s office was replaying in his mind. 

“Mudblood.” Again, the word was out before he could stop it. _Shit_. 

He sensed Theo instantly tense up by his side, and scrambled about in his mind for something coherent to follow the loaded word up with – to explain what he meant. 

“Draco - no!” Blaise admonished in a childlike tone, jostling and poking at his arm. “That’s...bad!” 

“No. No! That’s not what I meant…” Draco summoned all his mental energy to think coherently. “Today – some third years were being total shits to Freddie Flint. He ended up calling one of them a mudblood, just as Granger rocked up. She went absolutely batshit.”

“Of course she did. She’s _Granger_...all indignant and self-righteous.” Blaise limply flailed his arms about in a poor attempt to emphasise his point. 

“Well...she probably has a right to be indignant about that stuff. Her out of everyone. After everything that’s happened.” Theo’s words were so quiet, Draco only just heard him. And he partly wished he hadn’t because that familiar, distasteful feeling was roiling his gut again – a feeling that he habitually pushed away before he had to think about it too much. 

“No, I mean _really_ quite batshit,” Draco insisted. “She levitated Freddie Flint, tipped him upside down and started spinning him. I mean, it was pretty impressive in a way…” 

“So, what's the problem?” Theo asked gently. Draco could feel him looking askance at him. 

'It's just not… _her_ ...it’s not _Granger,_ ” Draco feebly attempted to explain. He didn’t go on; it was hard enough to explain when he _wasn’t_ stoned out of his mind.

It just...wasn’t right, how Granger had been since the beginning of term. For some reason, it was really getting under his skin, how the light had died from her eyes. That’s why he always had an urge to rile her – just to see that light flicker on again – like that time she was underneath him in the Astronomy Tower...even today, after she emerged from McGonagall’s office, he’d wanted to make her understand about last year, but he’d also wanted more. He’d kept looking a her lips and had had the urge to reach out and...grasp the back of her ridiculous hair...push her up against the wall and…he wondered what kind of noises she might make if he –

“Draco mate, is that a wand in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?” Blaise’s mocking voice tore through Draco’s thoughts, and he turned to see Blaise looking pointedly down at the top of Draco’s trousers. 

“Shit,” Draco mumbled, scrambling up into a sitting position. 

_Woah_ – head rush. Blaise and Theo both burst out laughing. 

“Is that hard-on from the chat about Longbottom’s sword?” Blaise asked as Draco tentatively got to his feet – he needed to get out of there. 

“Or on behalf of Granger?” Theo asked, his voice quiet and serious. 

“Neither, for fuck’s sake…I'm going to get some food.” 

“Of course. Food,” Theo said as Draco walked towards the stairs of the Tower. 

“Enjoy your wank!” Blaise called after him, and as Draco started to descend down the stairs, he heard him say in a quieter tone to Theo, “Food does actually sound like an amazing idea…” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers of my fic ‘The Hardest Battles’ will recognise the incident of Seamus’ finger mutilation. ‘The Hardest Battles’ is my story of what happened at Hogwarts during the Deathly Hallows. ‘Atonement’ is not a sequel as such (as I’ve changed some relationship dynamics) but some things that happened in ‘The Hardest Battles’ are my ‘head canon’ for ‘Atonement’ too. If you want to read the scene regarding Seamus, from Theo's POV, it’s the second scene in chapter 25 of ‘the Hardest Battles’, and will mostly make sense on it’s own (I think!). But of course, reading that, or any of ‘The Hardest Battles’, is not necessary to understand ‘Atonement’ - they both stand on their own. 
> 
> Also, credit to MotherofBulls and her fic ‘The Year Neville Broke Bad’ which inspired the last section of this chapter. If you haven’t read it, you should - it’s comedy gold!
> 
> Your kudos, comments, thoughts and constructive feedback are cherished and treasured!


	7. Give Sorrow Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * indicates dialogue taken directly from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

_ Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak knits up the o’er wrought heart and bids it break _ – William Shakespeare, Macbeth. 

* * *

_When your day is long / And the night / The night is yours alone / When you're sure you've had enough / Of this life / Well hang on / Don't let yourself go / 'Cause everybody cries / And everybody hurts sometimes_ – Everybody Hurts, REM

* * *

Hermione sat on a hard, wooden chair outside the door to the mind healer’s room. She’d got there unnecessarily early – fifteen minutes before her appointment. She crossed one leg tightly over the other, her left foot jiggling up and down in short, frantic movements, and her right hand absently rubbing at the bandage wrapped around her left forearm. She stared down at the book in front of her, trying for the tenth time to translate the same phrase of ancient runes, but she couldn’t focus. The shapes danced in front of her eyes, abstract and foreign. 

Several times over the last few days, she’d thought of not attending the session, but then she’d imagined McGonagall’s disappointed face if she didn’t. She also knew that her hesitancy was born from some kind of cowardice, which Hermione couldn't abide in herself, and hence she’d stubbornly made her way, reluctant but resigned, to the healer’s room.  _ Cowardice _ ...which implied there was something to be afraid of by coming here, which was ridiculous, surely – 

The sound of muffled but raised voices jolted Hermione out of her reverie. Well,  _ one  _ raised voice, coming from the healer’s room – a voice raised in agitation or despair, Hermione couldn't tell. Maybe both. It was interspersed with a lower, steadier one. After several moments the raised voice gradually quietened to a normal murmur, followed by a moment or so of silence, before the door of the room opened. Its creaking sounded startling and abrasive in the quiet corridor, and caused Hermione’s heart to pound and her head to snap towards the person stepping out of the door. 

“I’ll see you at the same time next week, Theo,” a warm, pleasant voice said from inside the room. 

Theodore Nott, who was now standing in the corridor, in full view of Hermione, nodded in response, before the door closed again. 

Hermione knew she shouldn’t stare, but Nott’s eyes were red and bloodshot, his cheeks puffy. He’d clearly been crying. Hermione was stunned; she had only ever seen Nott cold and composed. She hadn’t thought that he’d contain enough emotions to cry in such a way that it would be written all over his face; to lose his composure to such an extent that he’d raise his voice at a school mind healer. 

Nott didn’t see her at first; he’d stopped to rub his eyes. Then he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and turned to walk down the corridor in the direction Hermione was sitting. Their gazes met and, on seeing her for the first time, Nott’s eyes flickered and his lips twitched. Hermione could tell he was processing the fact she’d witnessed a side of him he endeavoured to keep hidden. She felt guilty for some reason – for seeing him so raw; so vulnerable and exposed. 

Hermione braced herself for Nott’s defence – for a sneer or damning comment that would inevitably come her way. But his expression merely morphed into an unreadable mask before he dipped his chin at her in a short nod of acknowledgement and strode past her down the corridor. 

After a few more torturously slow minutes, in which Hermione tried again to focus on the runes in her book, but instead could only see Nott’s red and watery face in her mind's eye, the door opened again and a woman peered out. 

“Hermione?” she asked gently. “Would you like to come in?” 

Hermione followed the woman into the room and they both sat on either side of a low coffee table. Whilst the healer introduced herself and explained something about confidentiality and the ‘purpose of the first session’, Hermione looked down at the rug at her feet. It was very faded...and possibly looked Persian...maybe handmade...she wondered whether it was the healer’s choice of décor or whether it had been decided for her…

“...Hermione?”

Hermione’s head snapped up to look at the healer – Alethea, is that what she’d said her name was? – who’d just asked her a question. A question Hermione hadn’t heard. 

“Pardon?” 

“I said, do you have any questions about what I’ve just explained?” 

“Oh – erm - no...no, I don’t.” 

Alethea smiled kindly and nodded. “Okay...well, maybe a good place to start is with what you’d like to get out of our meeting today, or any further sessions we might have together?” 

“Oh, I – I don’t think I’ll need any more sessions. I’m fine, you see.” 

Alethea’s eyes sparkled. She did have rather kind eyes. “You’ve not been experiencing any emotional difficulties or distress? It’s something a lot of people are feeling at the moment, which is understandable considering the kind of things that the wizarding world has gone through in the last year.” 

“Oh. I’m fine, honestly. I don’t feel distressed...I don’t feel anything.” 

Hermione wasn’t sure if she’d meant to say that last part. 

Alethea’s lips turned down – subtly but unmistakably. She scribbled something on the parchment on her lap. 

“Is it fine to ‘not feel anything’?” Alethea asked gently. 

Hermione’s right hand automatically twitched with a strong urge to move to her left forearm and rub her shirt, just over her bandage. She balled her right hand into a fist to distract herself, her nails digging painfully into her palm. “No, but….I mean, I've been feeling fine except for when the Freddie Flint thing happened.” 

Alethea nodded slowly. “The Freddie Flint thing?” 

Hermione tried to swallow. Why was her mouth so dry? “Erm...I’m sure Professor McGonagall would have talked to you about it?” 

Another smile. “She actually didn’t say too much, just that she recommended we meet.” 

“Okay...well…” Hermione managed to explain what happened with the hexes she’d subjected Freddie Flint to. “So...so I suppose I lost control a bit,” she eventually finished. 

“And is that normal for you, Hermione? To generally be feeling not much at all and then suddenly lose control a bit?”

Alethea didn’t sound judgemental. It was hard to gauge how she sounded – just neutral, Hermione supposed. 

Hermione shrugged. She looked down at her hands, twisting and entwining her fingers together. “Erm...well, not really I suppose. I used to be – I mean, I’m normally quite level-headed.” 

Alethea regarded her thoughtfully. “I wonder if it would help, then, to unpack what happened with Freddie Flint a bit more? Would you like some help to make sense of that?” 

Hermione thought again about how she still couldn't understand her own behaviour during the Flint debacle; how she had scared herself by how much she’d lost control of her own actions. 

“Yes. Yes, okay,” she conceded. 

“Okay.” Alethea shuffled a bit in her seat, as if getting herself comfortable. “So, you said that you’d just been going for a walk in the grounds before you came across Freddie and the others. How were you feeling at that point?”

“How was I feeling?” Hermione echoed, and hated how stupid she sounded. 

“Yes. What sensations were going through your body? What was going through your mind? How were you feeling? Relaxed, excited, happy, scared, worried?” 

“Oh well….I was feeling normal at that point...like I...like I normally do at the moment, and I was thinking about my Muggle Studies lesson.” 

More specifically, she’d been thinking about how Draco Malfoy’s molten silver eyes had looked as he’d explained to Mr Battersby what the class had been subjected to the year before. She’d been wondering how much he still believed all the lies that the class had apparently been taught, wondering if he still hated her and her ‘kind’ with as much vitriol as he had in their earlier years. But all that didn’t seem very relevant to explain to Alethea. 

“Hm-mm, and then what happened as you heard, or saw, the group of other students?” 

“Erm...well, I turned the corner and the first thing I saw was Freddie Flint push someone and then shout out – shout out ‘don’t touch me you filthy Mudblood’ or something – I can’t remember what exactly – but he definitely said ‘Mudblood’ and then – and then,” Hermione concentrated hard, because the memory of the event didn’t seem entirely cohesive. “That’s when I lost control...it was as if my body were acting without my mind – I can’t remember what I thought exactly, it was as if I didn’t have any thoughts – and before I knew it, I was levitating Freddie and spinning him in the air.” Hermione paused, as a wave of burning shame rolled over her. “And I think I shouted some things but can’t remember what….” 

“Hmm...so it’s hard to remember what was going through your mind...can you remember what was happening in your body? What sensations did you feel?” 

That seemed much easier. “I – I remember my head feeling hot - as if all the blood had rushed to it and my heart – my heart was  _ pounding  _ – and my muscles were so tense and geared up – as if I was going ready to  _ fight  _ something...although I know now there really wasn’t anything to fight...it’s not as if I was in danger from anyone...” Hermione finished lamely. 

Alethea nodded again. “Okay. So it seemed that hearing the word ‘Mudblood’ shouted in a vitriolic way, maybe coupled with the fact that you witnessed the person saying it being physically aggressive, might have triggered a particular reaction in your mind and body, Hermione. A reaction that you couldn’t control.” 

“But why? Why couldn’t I control it? I can hear and say the word ‘Mudblood’ now without that kind of reaction.” Although it  _ did _ feel as if she’d eaten something bitter and rotten when she uttered the word. 

“Well, that’s a good question. Let’s think about that for a bit. Let’s sit with this word ‘Mudblood’ for a bit, really focus on it…what do you think of when you hear that word?” 

_ Mudblood. _

“Hate,” Hermione offered. 

“Hm-mm?” 

_ Mudblood. _

“Fear.”

“Hmm?” 

_ Mudblood. _

_ You are lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it!... Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!*  _

Black terror seized Hermione, flooding her veins and freezing her blood...she was descending into the depths of excruciating pain….of wild, dark hair and hard wooden floorboards….a dagger dripping blood and the shattered teardrops of a crystal chandelier – 

Someone touched her arm and she yelped. She opened her eyes wide and the warm colours of Alethea’s room invaded her vision, along with the woman’s face, creased in concern. 

“Hermione? Hermione – you’re okay – you’re in the healer’s office at Hogwarts, and it’s September 1998,” Alethea spoke calmly, her words deliberate and measured. 

Hermione’s heart felt as if it were trying to crash through her chest. Her breath was coming in heavy gasps.

“Breathe with me, Hermione – slow and deep breaths, and try and make your exhalation a little longer than your inhalation,” Alethea said soothingly. 

Hermione willed her mind and body to calm, but everything felt speeded up; her thoughts were racing wildly, her mouth was so very dry. What was wrong with her? Why was this happening? She felt she might be sick and balled her clammy hands around the fabric of her skirt, trying desperately to distract herself by focusing on the feeling of the rough cotton stretching in her fists. 

“Hermione, there’s absolutely nothing to fear here. Your body has just gone into a bit of a panic response. Just keep breathing deeply, maybe place your hands on your stomach and focus on its rise and fall…” Alethea continued in a calm, almost hypnotic voice, placing her own hand on her own stomach, as if in demonstration. 

Hermione did her best to do as she suggested, and gradually she felt her heart rate slow and her racing thoughts quieten. She finally felt in control of her body again, although her arms were now trembling slightly, her stomach still curdled nauseatingly, and she felt the beginnings of a headache. 

“Hermione, can you explain a bit of what happened there, when we were discussing the word ‘Mudblood’? What happened, from your point of view?” Alethea asked when it was clear Hermione had regained some semblance of normality.

Hermione focused on the faded floral border of the rug at her feet. 

“I don't know – I couldn't – I can’t –” Despite how much she tried to articulate what had just happened, Hermione could not find the words. When her mind’s eye returned to polished wooden floorboards and the gleam of crystal, her heart started to ratchet up to a terrifying rate. 

Alethea held her hand up slightly, as if placating her. “It’s okay, that’s okay, don’t worry if it’s too hard. Maybe I’ll explain what happened from my perspective? To me, you see, you went very still for about one to two minutes, and sat with your eyes open, staring at the floor. Although I said your name, it was as if you couldn’t hear me.” 

One to two minutes? Hermione had no idea she’d been….wherever she’d been for that long. 

“I’ve seen this before – it’s often what happens when people experience what we call a ‘dissociative state’. Have you heard of that, Hermione?” 

“Yes – yes, I’ve read about dissociation, but isn’t that what happens when someone’s experienced psychological trauma?” 

Alethea raised her eyebrows and smiled slightly, as if indicating that what Hermione had asked was telling or ironic in some way. Hermione quickly realised her meaning. She let out a dismissive noise that sounded halfway between a huff and a laugh. 

“I – I’m not traumatised. Like I said, I’m fine most of the time,” Hermione protested, although she wasn’t sure if she was convincing herself or Alethea. 

“You also said you ‘don’t feel anything’ most of the time. And emotional numbness can also be a common reaction to trauma, Hermione,” she said gently, laying her parchment down on the table and placing her hands in her lap. She looked at Hermione intently. “I don’t know everything about your experiences in the last year or so, but I have heard some things from the press, etcetera. And it sounds like you went through some really gruelling experiences.” 

Hermione remembered the biting cold and piercing hunger of months living in fields and forests. The constant running. Running and the fear of being caught, always watching her back, never going more than a few hours without sleep…she thought of the dizzying, sickening feeling as jets of green light flew past her, inches from her head and Michael Corner dropping dead two feet away from her…the charred body of Remus Lupin…her mother’s eyes devoid of any recognition…of snatchers Apparating them to the wrought iron gates of Malfoy Manor – 

But she couldn’t think of that. Not that in particular. 

“I – I suppose so, yes.” But it was all experiences she should be able to deal with, surely? Other people had gone through much worse. “Things haven’t been as bad for me as they have for others, though. Like – like for Harry.” 

Alethea’s lips turned up into another kind smile. “Well. It’s not a competition, and that’s quite a false comparison I think.” 

There was a pause as Hermione thought in detail about all she had thoughts and felt over the last few months and tried to remember what she’d read about psychological trauma. “I – I suppose I did have a bit of a panic attack at the beginning of the summer. Or terror turn,” Well, maybe she’d had more than one. “But what happened with Freddie was different.” 

“Well, panic attacks or terror-turns are not the only consequences of trauma. I’m sure you’ve heard of the fight, flight or freeze response? After a traumatic event, a person can become what we call ‘hyper-vigilant’ to threat. The mind or body can perceive a threat, or something harmful, even when objectively there isn’t one. If something triggers our threat response, the parts of our brain that interpret what is going on in a ‘rational’ way are bypassed and the emotional brain is activated on its own, leading to powerful feelings, without much ‘thought’. Usually feelings of fear – the flight mode – or anger, the fight mode. And this kicks off many physiological reactions.

“It seems that, when you heard the word ‘Mudblood’ shouted offensively, whilst at the same time witnessing some aggression from the shouter, your mind – and body – went into _ fight  _ mode.”

Hermione remained quiet whilst she let Alethea’s explanation drift around her mind, letting it settle and assimilate with her own memories of what she had said and done that evening with Freddie.

“And like I said,” Alethea continued. “The feeling of numbness you described can also be a common reaction to trauma. Trauma memories are not processed like other memories. They’re stored primarily in the amygdala, the emotional part of the brain. The numbness is like a survival mechanism, because it’s much more manageable to feel – or not feel – the numbness than the unpredictable, powerful emotions the trauma memories can continually conjure up.” 

The things Alethea had said were sliding and shifting in her mind, as if she were solving a jigsaw puzzle, but one which had some key pieces missing. 

“Another consequence of traumatic memories being solely stored in the emotional part of the brain is that the verbal part of the brain – the part that does the  _ thinking _ – hasn’t been able to make sense of the memories. Trauma memories are nonverbal. Often, people cannot put words to them. Rather, they are experienced as fragmented images or feelings that don’t fit together into a coherent narrative. We need the verbal part of our mind to form that narrative, you see. And that’s something we can do in therapy – form a narrative – when it feels safe enough, and help the trauma memories be stored like normal memories.”

Hermione knew the feeling of numbness was not entirely normal for her...but it wasn’t as if she was  _ choosing  _ to feel that way. Although, even if she could choose, maybe numbness was a better alternative to the anger and terror she’d felt when she’d flung Freddie Flint into the air.

“So,” Hermione tried to swallow, but realised her mouth was parched, “So, how do we form a narrative, so that I can get – get over it all?” 

Alethea smiled. “There are certain things we can work through. It won’t happen overnight, but if it’s something you want to work on, I’m more than happy to help you, Hermione.” 

When Hermione thought seriously about stepping out of the numbness, for the glass wall to disappear, it was not appealing. She felt safe as she was. Although...she had noticed that the fog in her mind had sometimes made it hard for her to focus on her schoolwork…like how she couldn’t translate those ancient runes…and how she’d kept losing herself, zoning out during lessons. But more than anything, how she had lost control with Freddie Flint scared her.

“Okay,” she conceded quietly.

Alethea smiled – more widely this time. Hermione wondered if her head was on a kind of timer: smile, neutral expression, nod, repeat. 

“Great. Let’s book in some more appointments then and maybe start off with some grounding techniques, to help you learn how to calm your body and mind down when you’re feeling anxious. But before we do – there was just something else I wanted to ask you.” 

Alethea shifted in her seat; it was the first time that Hermione saw her looking uncertain. 

“Before starting this job at Hogwarts, I spent some time conducting research with a team of other mind healer colleagues. We were studying a new kind of therapeutic intervention. Looking at the research, the factors that consistently reduce psychological distress and increase coping are supportive peer relationships and social connections. In some ways, the best healing can come from others around one – friends, colleagues, family members.” Hermione felt a twist in her gut at the mention of family. “And from those that have experienced similar difficulties, but who might have coped with it in different ways.” 

“Right.” 

“My colleagues and I have developed a very specific potion and charm.” Alethea shuffled awkwardly in her seat again. “When the teardrops of particular people are added to the potion, and the spell is cast, the magic will pair up those that have contributed tears. A person will be paired with someone else who they will most benefit from, psychologically and emotionally. Each of the pair will have something the other needs, you see.” 

Hermione’s curiosity stirred – to have created such a potion and spell seemed incredibly advanced. “Oh? And once you’ve cast the charm, how do you know who’s been matched with who?”

“Before we put a person’s tears into the potion, we will charm them to take on a specific colour. The colour is that person’s identifier, if you like. Then, once the potion has finished brewing, and the spell work has been completed, the potion will change into a mix of two colours in turn – it usually takes the form of a spiral. Those two colours will indicate two people – a therapeutic pairing.” 

“Right,” Hermione repeated. 

Alethea's face broke out into an eager smile. She was clearly excited about this new treatment. “So, I have spoken to Professor McGonagall and she has given me permission to offer this intervention to students. The person who someone is paired with will be referred to as their ‘Therapeutic Match’. Those students partaking will be asked for a vial of their tears. The potion is already prepared and I am hoping to do the spell work, and hence have a list of pairings, by this Sunday evening.” 

“Okay...and what will happen then?” 

“Well – we’d encourage the pairs of participants to spend as much time with each other as possible. And to do that we have devised a set of activities – or tasks – that they can do together. We strongly recommend they do these because the research has shown this is how the two will get the most out of their relationship.” 

“What – what kind of tasks?” Hermione asked, a sense of foreboding rising in her as she thought of the Triwizard Tournament. 

“Oh, nothing too difficult – discussing a particular topic together, for example. Or teaching each other a skill. And, to aid the development of the relationship, each person will be given a charmed quill and notebook, called a Binding Book. When they write in this notebook, their Therapeutic Match can see what they’ve written and write back. It’s much more efficient than Owls! But, if someone else were to take the book, they wouldn't be able to see what has been written; the pages will appear blank. Only the relevant pair, Professor McGonagall and I will be able to see what is written in the Binding Books. And we would always ask your consent to read it, and with good reason. 

“Also, the Binding Books are charmed to give instructions or clarify things – a bit like a referee, if you like.” Alethea laughed, as if particularly pleased with this aspect of the project, before continuing. 

“Another important part of this intervention is that, when the pair agrees to participate, they are bound by something akin to a Fidelius Charm. They would not be able to share anything that happens between the pair with anyone else, except myself and Professor McGonagall. This fosters trust between the pair, you see, which is of course crucial if the relationship is going to be helpful for either party.” 

“Oh. Well, that all sounds...sounds interesting,” Hermione remarked doubtfully, anticipating what question was going to come next. 

“So – I was wondering if you’d like to participate?” 

“Well – I think – I think that might depend on who I was partnered up with?” 

“Ah! Yes, well, that makes sense. Well, we don’t know that until we’ve cast the charm, of course. But if you have any concerns about who the potion picks for you, we can always discuss them at the time. You’re not obliged to go through with it. Although...if someone were to back out at that stage, that would have implications for others involved, you see. So we do ask for people to think carefully about it and offer their tears only if they’re committed, as best as they can be, to going through with it.” 

“Oh, well…” Hermione felt fairly ambivalent about taking part in the project. The kind of tasks Alethea described seemed relatively harmless, although she didn’t really fancy discussing various topics with a random person, with a student she didn’t know very well. But it wasn’t as if the potion would pair her up with someone she didn’t like, surely? That wouldn’t be very therapeutic for either of them, would it?... And it would probably look good to McGonagall and Alethea if she participated, as if she were  _ trying _ , making an effort... “Erm...okay, I’ll give it a go...” 

“Great!” Alethea rose energetically to her feet and rummaged in a draw of her desk for a few moments before returning to her armchair. “Here – these are for you.” She handed Hermione a leather-bound book in deep purple with a symbol of two clasped hands embossed on the front, and a large silver quill. “At some point this Sunday evening, the Book will momentarily glow and heat up. Then, the name of the person you’re paired with will be written on the first page!” 

“Right. Okay.” Hermione took the Book and quill and shoved them into her bag, still feeling a familiar kind of numb ambivalence towards the project. 

Because really, what was the worst that could happen? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your kudos, comments, thoughts and constructive feedback are cherished and treasured!


	8. Forget-me-not of the Angels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazing alphabetas!

_‘With the lights out, it's less dangerous / Here we are now, entertain us / I feel stupid and contagious / Here we are now, entertain us’_

\- Smells Like Teen Spirit, Nirvana. 

* * *

The party was in full swing by the time Hermione arrived. She hadn’t wanted to go but Ginny had insisted, chipping away at Hermione’s resolve until she’d reluctantly conceded. 

There was a short, sandy strip of the Great Lake shore that some referred to as a ‘beach’ – although that was probably being generous – and that had long been used by the older students of Hogwarts for parties during the warmer months of the school year. A campfire would be lit, alcohol somehow smuggled in from Hogsmeade, and a gramophone charmed with a Sonorus Charm to belt out the students’ favourite tunes. 

On the second weekend of the school year, the Gryffindors had decided to hold the first ‘beach party’ of the term in honour of Hermione’s birthday. The fact that Hermione had no interest in celebrating her birthday – with a party or any other event – didn’t seem to faze Seamus, Dean and Ginny, who went about organising it with enthusiastic fervour. 

Hermione would rather have ignored it completely. She received a flurry of well wishes and presents from inside and outside of Hogwarts, including a lovely set of bespoke bookmarks from Ron. But it all only served to highlight, with a painful hollowness, the absence of the birthday wishes from her parents. 

What the Gryffindors hadn’t counted on was that the Slytherins had also decided to hold a beach party on the same night. Neither group backed down and cancelled, and so they reached an unspoken, albeit begrudging, agreement that they would merge their two parties into one.

When Hermione arrived at the Lake shore, she was unsurprised to observe an uneasy divide amongst the party’s attendees. Theo Nott sat on a log near a blazing fire, playing a guitar that rested on his knee, whilst a few Slytherins around him sang along to his tune. On the other side of the fire sat Hermione’s fellow Gryffindors, with the space between the two groups peppered with a mixture of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. 

Parvati, however, seemed to have breached the divide. She was sitting, to Hermione’s consternation, next to Theo Nott on the log, singing along with a bottle of beer in her hand. Hermione had heard of her unlikely role during the Carrows’ reign of the school last year: how she had maintained some kind of affair with Blaise Zabini and how, as a result, she’d managed to obtain valuable Death Eater information for Dumbledore’s Army. Neville, Luna and Ginny would not have been able to break into Snape’s office to attempt to steal the Sword of Gryffindor if Parvati hadn’t ‘acquired’ the password from Zabini, who, at that time, had been a trusted member of the newly reformed Inquisitorial Squad. Zabini had been in on it and had known that Parvati had been passing on the secrets he disclosed. He had wanted her to do it – it had been his way of helping the DA, apparently. Why he hadn't just _told_ Parvati the information, Hermione had no idea. But then, it seemed there was a lot she didn’t understand about what had happened at Hogwarts last year. 

Hermione wasn’t sure how she felt about the whole thing – about Parvati and Zabini, about exchanging sexual favours for Death Eater secrets. She knew that war made people do desperate things, but seeing Parvati now sitting so comfortably amongst the Snakes was somewhat unsettling. 

Hermione took off her shoes to feel the cold sand on the soles of her feet, before taking a seat by the fire next to Dean. As her fellow housemates greeted her, and Seamus passed her a beer, she looked around for Harry and Ginny and saw them sitting just outside the ring of students circling the fire. Ginny was practically straddling Harry’s lap; their arms were entwined around each other’s bodies and their mouths were locked together in what looked like a lengthy kiss. 

They had practically been in the same position ever since returning to Hogwarts, but Hermione understood why. Harry had often talked about Ginny during their hunt for Horcruxes; he’d confided to Hermione on more than one occasion that, if he ever had the chance to be with Ginny again, he would not waste a second with her – more than that, in fact: he would try and make up for the time they’d lost. 

She was happy for them, she really was, but she was acutely aware that it was another blow to what had been her powerful trio of friendship. A trio that had splintered violently apart when Ron hadn’t returned to school, and had been weakened further now that Harry was burying himself – literally on occasions, no doubt – in Ginny. Hermione felt as if she was a piece of a broken union, careening away from the sight of its destruction, lost in space and not knowing where she was going to land. 

She took a swig of her beer and tried to tune into a conversation between Neville, Seamus and Hannah. They were talking about Alecto Carrrow, about something that had happened last year – something about magical graffiti – and they were all suddenly laughing raucously at a joke that Hermione didn’t understand. 

Dean leaned towards her and said ruefully, “Do you sometimes feel that everyone else has seen a film you haven’t, and they won’t stop talking about it?” 

Hermione turned to Dean and smiled gratefully, thinking of the numerous ‘in-jokes’ she’d heard the old seventh years make in the last week. “Yep,” she agreed. 

Being two of the few Gryffindor Muggle-borns in their year, Dean and Hermione had formed a special type of friendship over the years. He had often given Hermione mixtapes of the latest Muggle bands – they’d both shared a liking for indie and grunge music – and had repeatedly exchanged eye-rolls as their peers made clueless assumptions about Muggle culture. 

Now, Hermione thought of how Dean had had to spend the last year running too, of how he’d started off alone, rather than with two best friends. Hermione had hardly talked to him during the time they’d shared at Shell Cottage. She had spent most of the time engrossed in planning the Gringotts break-in, after the first few days when she’d been healing from… But she hated to think about those initial dark days of recovery, so she quickly focused her attention back on Dean. 

“It must have been hard for you? Last year?” Hermione asked gently. 

Dean nodded solemnly, his gaze directed at the fire. “Yeah. But it got better after I met Ted.” 

Ted Tonks, who had later died, Hermione thought. Her gut twisted uncomfortably, and she took a long swig of her beer to try and numb the feeling. 

“Are your family alright?” Hermione asked, realising she didn’t know what had happened to Dean’s three younger Muggle sisters. 

Dean smiled. “Yeah – they’re all okay. My sisters are as annoying, as always.” 

“That’s good. I’m glad. That they’re okay, not that they’re annoying.” 

Hermione wasn’t sure what else to say, and didn’t want Dean asking her about her own parents, so she took a sip of her beer and turned back towards the fire, her eyes gliding to the space beyond the blaze. Her heart stuttered alarmingly as she caught sight of Draco Malfoy sitting directly opposite her and staring straight at her, his expression dark and steely. Their eyes locked through the dancing flames of the fire; he didn’t look away, seemingly totally unfazed by the fact he’d been caught staring at her. It was only when Astoria Greengrass sat down next to him and leaned over to whisper in his ear that he took his eyes from hers. 

Hermione was distracted from the feel of Malfoy’s cold stare by the sound of Theo Nott starting to strum the chords to _Smells Like Teen Spirit._

“This was on one of the first mixtapes you gave me,” Hermione said to Dean, the memory making her smile. “I'm surprised Nott knows it - and can bear to play it, considering they’re a Muggle band.” 

“Yeah – it came out in ninety-one… d’you remember when we both wore all black that weekend in third year, cos we were mourning Kurt Cobain’s death? And nobody else had a clue why?” Dean reminisced, speaking through a wide grin. 

“Yeah...I remember,” Hermione said warmly. 

“ _‘I'm worse at what I do best, and for this gift I feel blessed...our little group has always been, and always will until the end.._.’” Nott sang. 

Despite herself, Hermione had to admit that Nott had a rather lovely voice. She watched as Luna got to her feet and started to sway to the music, gliding her arms gracefully through the air in a very unusual dance. Nott, who had also been watching her, faltered in his playing, his mouth slightly agape, as if the sight of her was taking all his concentration. 

Hermione readied herself to defend Luna from Nott, anticipating that he was about to say something derogatory about Luna’s dancing. But instead, Nott seemed to shake his head as if trying to come out a trance, and resumed his playing. His eyes remained on Luna, though, who was now twirling on the spot – a seeming swirl of pale blond hair, milk-white skin and floating, midnight-blue fabric. 

She suddenly felt Dean’s arm around her shoulder, pulling her towards him in a friendly embrace. She turned to look at him and saw him smiling sadly at her. 

“I’m glad you’re okay, Hermione. I’m glad we both got out of that shitstorm alive,” he said softly. 

The words and the gesture warmed something in Hermione’s heart and she found herself reaching up and wrapping her arms around Dean in a tight hug. They stayed like that for a moment, two Muggle-borns heavy with the knowledge that they’d managed to survive a violent persecution that had taken so much else from them. 

After Hermione gently pulled away from the embrace, she risked a glance across the fire again, but there was an empty space where Malfoy had been sitting, now flanked by Astoria and Pansy Parkinson. 

A little while later, Terry Boot came over, subtly waving a spliff at Seamus and Dean, who disappeared off with him to smoke it. After they’d gone, Hermione realised that Neville and Hannah seemed to have moved inexplicably close to each other and suddenly felt very out of place. She had an immediate urge to get away – from the people and the chatter and the bright light of the fire. 

She rose to her feet, her fourth beer in hand, and started to walk along the lake shore, where the strip of sand became narrower and narrower. Her skin cooled as she stepped out of the reach of the fire’s flames, but the alcohol had warmed her veins and made her cheeks flush. As the sound of the music and chatter faded, she heard the lapping of the lake’s waters and the rustle of animals in the undergrowth that bordered the beach. 

The temporary peace was broken by a shrill giggle, and Hermione turned to see Susan Bones stepping out from between some bushes, straightening her hair and her dishevelled clothes, a mischievous grin plastered on her face. Hermione’s heart leaped as she saw who followed her: Blaise Zabini, looking unconcerned and nonchalant, his hands reaching down and doing up the zip of his flies. The word of accusation that Seamus had levelled at the man came back to Hermione: _rapist_. 

“Susan,” Hermione couldn’t help but call, causing Susan to pause and look at her in surprise. “Are you okay?” 

Susan’s grin broadened. “Of course,” she answered as Zabini came and took her hand, giving Hermione a wary look. There was an awkward silence as the two girls looked at each other. “Are... _you_ okay?” Susan asked. 

“Yes. Fine,” Hermione responded. 

Susan didn’t look as if she were under the influence of any kind of spell, or potion – or even alcohol. Her eyes were bright and focused, her stance steady. Hermione felt somewhat silly – redundant – as Zabini started to lead Susan back towards the campfire. 

Hermione continued in the opposite direction, her thoughts swimming confusingly. A few metres on, she noticed a figure sitting in the sand, his forearms resting against pulled up knees, with a beer bottle in one hand, craning his neck as he looked up at the sky. 

Malfoy. 

She came to a stop a few metres behind him and saw his shoulders tense as if he could sense her presence, but he didn’t look around. 

Hermione followed his gaze. The sky was littered with a thousand immortal sparkles of light. It was one of the things that Hermione loved most about Hogwarts – the array of stars that could be seen on a clear night, due to the lack of light pollution in this wild part of the British Isles. 

“‘The forget-me-nots of the angels’,” Malfoy spoke, his voice quiet and thoughtful. 

Hermione had never heard his voice sound so empty of vitriol, and she wondered whether that was because he hadn’t realised it was _her_ that was standing behind him. She felt a pang of something that she couldn’t name, mixed in with surprise that Malfoy knew Muggle poetry enough to quote it from memory. 

“‘In the infinite meadows of heaven’,” she couldn’t help but say, because it was such a beautiful line, it would be a shame for it not to be finished. “Henry Longfellow.” 

Malfoy abruptly jerked around and fixed his eyes on her. She caught the glimpse of an initial startled expression before it morphed into one of disdain. 

“Ten points to Gryffindor,” he sneered, before turning back to face the lake. 

She could have left. Could have sighed frustratedly, turned and walked back to the crowd by the fire. But the beer made her stubborn, argumentative. Walking away felt like she would lose an unspoken game. 

“Why do you have to be so sarcastic all the time?” she accused. 

“Why do you have to be a loathsome little know-it-all all the time?” he responded unhesitatingly and bitterly, keeping his eyes on the sparkling sky. 

“What are you doing, anyway? Looking for your namesake? That would be suitably narcissistic of you.” She made her voice as acidic as possible. 

He looked back at her, his expression weary. “No, Granger,” he drawled patronisingly. Hermione could not _stand_ being patronised. 

Malfoy pulled himself to his feet and swayed slightly, before taking leisurely steps towards her, his eyes slowly raking up and down her body. He stopped a metre or so from her. 

“Saw you getting cosy with Thomas.” 

For a moment, she was confused by his words, before realising he must have been referring to Dean. She could understand that, from where Malfoy had been sitting, their embrace could have looked...less platonic. 

“That wasn’t anything,” she said, although why on earth she felt she had to explain herself to Malfoy, she had no idea. 

He took another step towards her, and she refused to move backwards. She felt that that would be an admittance of some kind – a sign that he was managing to intimidate her. 

“Working your way through the Gryffindor boys?” His words were low and unmistakably hostile. What’s more, his slurred speech and continued swaying made Hermione surmise that Malfoy was really very drunk. 

“What? No! _Piss_ off!” 

There were only inches between them now. Her mind urged her body to turn and leave, it silently screamed that he was far too close, but it was his eyes again that kept rooted to the spot. Her toes curled into the cold sand. 

“Oh, come on,” he drawled with mock-placation, leaning even closer to her. “I know at least Weasley’s had a go – the papers wouldn’t shut up about it.” His eyes glinted darkly as they flitted across her face, as if trying to read her thoughts in the lines around her eyes. He was so close now she could feel his breath ghost her jawline, then her cheek, moving down to her neck. Her breathing quickened. “And scarhead as well no doubt... Did you keep them warm during those cold nights on the run?...” His voice was low and slow and thick. “You’re _such_ a good friend, I’m sure you would have let them share you.” 

Her wand hand twitched at his vile words and she was about to bite out a retort, but his hand moved around to the back of her neck, clutching a bunch of her hair and gently tilted her head to one side. Despite herself, and the fact she could have easily escaped his grasp, she found herself yielding to his touch, her nerves sparking at the sensation. Her breath caught in her throat and she felt warmth flood her cheeks as Malfoy suddenly crushed his lips to hers. 

It was a punishing kiss – there was nothing tender in it – but the feel of it rippled through her body, down to her stomach, and lower. It was rough and it was savage, but it was how she wanted to be kissed because it meant she didn’t have to think. Before she had time to really process what was happening, he pulled back from her mouth, leaned to her ear again and whispered his next words into it like a viscous poison: 

“Did they take it in turns with you? Or did you let them have a go at the same time? You’re so talented after all, so _eager_ to please, I’m sure you could have managed it.”

Anger rose in her like Fiendfyre – anger at his words, but also at herself, at how her body had responded to him. Quickly, she stepped back on one foot to give herself leverage and, with as much force as she could muster, brought her balled up fist down onto Malfoy’s face. She heard a faint crack – possibly his nose – and felt the dull ache of the impact in her knuckles. 

“Arrgh!” Malfoy backed several steps away from her and brought his hands up to his nose as blood started to pour from it. 

His dark eyes were trained on her as his face broke into a grin – or a grimace, Hermione wasn’t sure. 

“I always enjoy tickling the lioness,” he scorned. “To see what it takes to get those scratchy little claws out. Never gets old, Granger.”

“Better watch-the-fuck-out, Malfoy. She might _bite_ next time.” Hermione could feel herself shaking, but managed to keep her voice steady. 

With relief, her body finally obeyed her mind and she turned, marching on shaking legs back in the direction of the fire. 

“Bite? Oh, please don’t _teeease_ me!” he called after her. 

His mocking laughter followed her for far too long. 

Hermione knew she should probably go back to the castle, should possibly even wake up McGonagall and report Malfoy for assault or something. But that would cause all kinds of chaos – for everybody, not just her and Malfoy – because the party would be found. The teachers normally turned a blind eye to the Lake parties, unless something significant happened….like people getting hurt. And then there was the fact that she’d gone ahead and bloody punched Malfoy, and she really didn’t know how that would be construed. 

Nevertheless, she probably should go back to Gryffindor Tower at least, drink a large glass of water, go to bed and then think about what to do in the morning. 

But, even though she hadn’t wanted to come to this bloody party in the first place, a stubborn part of her refused to let her night come to an end because of Malfoy’s vileness. 

So she returned to the campfire and swiftly drank another beer in an attempt to scourge the taste of him from her lips and erase the sound of his laughter from her mind. Then she gulped back another. Then she played some ridiculous drinking game with Seamus, Dean and Neville which involved downing far too many firewhiskey shots. In the midst of it, she remembered looking towards the castle and noticed the silhouettes of Ginny and Harry, walking hand-in-hand, back up the hill to the school. 

About two hours later, the alcohol had made her thoughts fuzzy and her mind pleasantly hazy, but the indignation she felt at Malfoy’s behaviour and words still tugged at the edges of her consciousness. 

She decided to find him and have it out with him – how dare he go about forcing kisses on people and then throwing about woman-shaming misogynist stories! And after all she'd had to endure from him during her school years up to now – _why_ did he still think it was okay to denigrate people like that? 

She marched around to the Slytherin half of the campfire, but couldn’t see Malfoy anywhere. The party was beginning to thin out – she couldn't see any of her fellow Gryffindors anywhere – and wondered if Malfoy had left too, which would be rather annoying. She found herself standing by the fire, swaying slightly in front of Zabini, who seemed to have lost Susan somewhere and was now sitting with Parvati. 

Her indignation simmered and bubbled over into anger. A small part of her mind was aware that the combination of vexation and alcohol was not a good one, but the more dominant part welcomed the dissipation of her normally tightly coiled thoughts. Thoughts that would usually sift through all possible actions she could take and _all_ their possible consequences, in order to minimise any potential hurt or damage to other people. It was a blissful relief to have that inner, exhausting voice be muffled for a while. 

“Hey Granger, you’re kinda blocking the fire…” Zabini called to her. 

It wasn’t said unkindly, but it riled her nonetheless. She looked down at his smug face, and her irritation spilled out of her. 

“What’s _with_ this anyway?” she asked disdainfully, gesturing to the unit that was Zabini and Parvati, her beer sloshing out of its bottle as she did so, landing cold and sticky on her hand.

Parvati smiled gently, like she was tolerating a child that was having a tantrum. “What do you mean, Hermione?” she asked calmly. 

How _condescending_. 

“How did you…sorry, I'm just trying to catch up…I'm curious about – about – “ Her speech was slurred and she couldn’t find the right words, which was incredibly frustrating – and it was all their fault because all of this is so _wrong_ – Susan going into the bushes with Zabini, who’d been accused of _rape,_ and then Parvati sitting there, next to him, seemingly quite at home in a pit of Snakes – didn’t she understand it was all so wrong too? 

“How is it,” – the next words are out before Hermione could stop them – “how exactly did you end up a _Death Eater’s_ whore?” Her last words were loud and shrill and easily carried over the chattering voices and the strumming of Nott’s guitar. 

There was a stunned silence amongst the Slytherin half of the party, the talking and Nott’s playing coming to an abrupt halt. Parvati’s face dropped – it was a mask of shock and hurt – and Hermione instantly realised, even with her alcohol-befuddled mind, that she’d said something very, very wrong. Her stomach curdled nauseatingly. There was a tense silence, the only sound was the crackling of the fire, as Hermione tried to think of the right words to make it all better again. 

Zabini got to his feet and looked like he was about to speak but someone else beat him to it. 

“That was out of order, Granger.” The voice was low and hard. 

Hermione turned to its owner: Malfoy. _There_ he was! She suddenly remembered that he was the real target of her wrath, and then her thoughts were tripping over themselves with the best – or worst – ways to insult an adolescent boy. 

“What Niffler’s got into your knickers?” Hermione spat at him. “Jealous no one wanted to suck your cock in return for Death Eater secrets? Or were you worried your sad little dick wouldn’t have worked properly if they’d tried?” She was aware her voice was unnecessarily loud, that everyone within a few metres of her was silently gaping at the unfolding drama. 

A girl’s high-pitched, mirthful laugh broke the silence. It had the characteristic sound of Pansy Parkinson about it, but Hermione didn’t turn from Malfoy, who was looking at her with a stony, guarded expression. 

She knew her words had been childish and immature, as well as potentially inaccurate. She had no idea if Malfoy's dick was sad. Or little. Or how well it worked. But if that incident in the Astronomy Tower was anything to go by… She shook her head, trying to clear it. 

Malfoy took a step closer to her and she remembered the kiss – if that’s what it had been – and his foul words, and the threatening, confusing mixture of emotions they’d aroused in her. She impulsively took a step backwards, swayed slightly, tried to right herself, then felt herself careening towards the fire. 

Malfoy, the person closest to her, instinctively reached out his hand and grabbed hold of her arm, steadying her. But his hand had clasped right around her scar – right about where the ‘U’, the ‘D’ and the ‘B’ were. 

Hermione let out a cry of anguish as a searing, burning pain radiated out from her wounds. 

The cuts still hadn’t healed – she hadn’t allowed them to – and the dark magic that lay dormant in them meant that they were always stingingly sensitive. 

Malfoy’s eyes widened in alarm, and he instantly released her arm. “What –”

”Fuck!“ Hermione exclaimed, the pain shocking her into sobriety. 

She steadied herself and tried to clear her head. She’d said things – things she shouldn’t have. She looked down at Parvati who was looking up at her coldy, as if she were a stranger.

“Parvati –” Hermione started an attempt at an apology. 

Parvati’s eyes flitted to Hermione’s arm. “You’re bleeding,” she remarked indifferently, before getting up and walking away, back towards the school. 

Hermione looked down at her arm. A dark pool of blood had started to seep through the sleeve of her shirt. Zabini rose and started to follow Parvati, but he stopped after a few steps and turned to Hermione. 

“When did you turn into such a bitch?” There was no vitriol in Zabini’s voice; the question was asked with genuine curiosity. He was gone before Hermione could form a reply. 

“Granger,” Malfoy said softly. She’d never heard him say her name like that before; his voice was regretful, beseeching. He took a step towards her, but all Hermione could think of was the pain in her arm, and wanting it to stop. She suddenly felt under threat – from what, she didn’t know – and had a powerful urge to get away – it felt as if the infinite dark of the night was encroaching towards her and would suffocate her.

“Don’t touch me!” Hermione shrieked impulsively, and Malfoy froze in his approach. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” a pacifying voice said and Pansy Parkinson was suddenly by her side – where had _she_ come from? “Let’s get you out of here. Let’s go and sort your arm out, Hermione, yeah?”

The suggestion seemed like a good one; Hermione knew she needed to get a new dressing on her cuts. 

“Pansy –” Malfoy objected. 

“I can handle this, Draco. Don’t worry about your precious princess,” Pansy said as she started to steer Hermione away from the fire. 

Hermione was so amused at the idea of being Malfoy’s ‘princess’, she found herself momentarily forgetting the pain of her arm and snorted inelegantly. 

“I’m not his princess. I'm not _anyone's_ princess,” she slurred sulkily, as she let Pansy guide her away from the beach. 

“I know, hon, I know,” Pansy said soothingly as they walked onto the hill’s path and began their ascent up to the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Draco is being particularly vile in this chapter, but bear with him, it/he gets better from now on.... 😁
> 
> Your kudos, comments, thoughts and constructive feedback are cherished and treasured!


	9. My Own Worst Enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Depiction of self-harm in this chapter. 
> 
> As always, huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazing alphabetas!

_ Can we forget about the things I said when I was drunk? / I didn't mean to call you that… /  _ **_..._ ** _ It's no surprise to me I am my own worst enemy / ‘Cause every now and then I kick the living shit out of me.  _

\- My Own Worst Enemy, Lit. 

* * *

Hermione could endure the piercing pain that radiated from her temples. She'd suffered through worse, of course. But it was the constant nausea that was intolerable; the relentless churning of her stomach, which made all her muscles tense as if her body were gearing up to convulse in a violent retch at any moment. 

She could safely say it was the worst hangover she'd ever had.

She remembered Pansy giving her a sobering draught after they’d walked to the foot of Gryffindor Tower the night before, so her mind had been quite clear when she’d gone to bed. But the draught obviously didn’t help with hangovers. 

Hermione lay in the same spot for several minutes, staring at the inside of her bed curtains and debating whether she should move. She knew she needed to get to the bathroom – to rid her mouth of the taste of something rotting in it, and because she felt like she might vomit at any moment. But she didn’t know if she’d make it that far – the thought of moving seemed unbearable and she feared that even the slightest shift in position might trigger her stomach muscles to contract and retch up her insides. 

Finally, she gingerly reached for her wand, ignoring how her head protested at the movement, and cast her bed curtains open. She flinched as the morning light flooded her vision. What time was it? She cast her eyes around and noticed that the dorm was empty of people except for Parvati, who was pottering quietly about the room. It seemed offensive to Hermione how someone could move so easily without their body protesting violently, like hers was.

Then she remembered. Memories invaded her mind’s eye like a mental assault: fire light, the black surface of the lake, cold sand beneath her feet...Parvati’s shocked and hurt face. __

_ Death Eater’s whore.  _

Oh God. An awful mixture of shame and guilt flooded Hermione. And there was more, wasn’t there? She searched her mind, but her memories of the night before were broken and fragmented… W _ hen did you turn into such a bitch? _ Hermione’s stomach turned ominously and she felt bile in her throat. And there was something about Draco Malfoy as well – she inwardly recoiled at the memory of the kiss – or whatever it’d been – and she'd said something to him as well…but she couldn’t think about that now. 

She watched Parvati, who didn’t seem to have noticed she'd woken up. Her dorm mate had pulled out an old t-shirt from the back of one of the wardrobes and was gazing at it with a far-way look in her eyes. 

Hermione knew she needed to apologise – needed to explain – but she was worried she might retch if she tried to speak and her mind was finding it hard to form the right words.

Nevertheless, she pushed herself to a sitting position and forced the words out.

“Par,” she began. 

Parvati looked up from the t-shirt and blinked as if trying to clear her thoughts. When her gaze settled on Hermione, her expression became cold and she wordlessly raised her eyebrows, unimpressed but expectant. Her expression caused Hermione’s insides to shrink and recoil and made it all so much harder, but she continued to push her words out. 

“I'm sorry – for what I said last night. I was so drunk and – and I didn’t mean it.” It sounded feeble and clichéd and Hermione knew it wasn’t enough. 

Parvati gave her a dispassionate, assessing look. 

'It's just – it's hard enough as it is,'' Parvati began, her voice steely. “Dealing with everything that happened last year. With the decisions I had to make. Blaise Zabini helped us then.” Parvati shrugged – it was a defiant gesture – and walked slowly to her bed, which was beside Hermione’s. “And I helped him to help us. I don’t regret any of it. I know not everyone understands why I did what I did, not completely – not even Seamus and Neville – I’ve seen the way they look at me sometimes. The only person that would have understood, entirely and non-judgmentally – that  _ had  _ understood – she’s dead.” Parvati’s voice had become more bitter as she’d spoken; her eyes were glistening with unshed tears. She cast the t-shirt she’d been holding onto her bed. “I keep finding her stuff...I suppose the house elves aren’t going to clear away clothes,” Parvati finished despairingly, before turning and walking to the door. 

But before she exited the room, she turned back to Hermione. Her tone was plaintive. 

“You know, I thought you of all people would treat words with more care,” Parvati’s eyes flitted to Hermione left arm. “Would know how deep they can wound.” And with that, she turned and left the dorm.

Hermione’s gaze drifted to the discarded t-shirt; she could read its name tag from where she sat:  _ L. Brown _ . 

Her stomach gave a sudden churn of protest. She tore her covers back, bolted to the bathroom, crouched over the toilet bowl and vomited violently. Once her stomach had expelled its contents, Hermione slumped back against the wall, catching her breath, her head pounding alarmingly and the fractured memories of the night before replaying in her mind.

A second wave of shame and humiliation flooded her, re-layering with each remembering: how drunk she had got; she must have seemed like a mad woman ranting at Parvati like that, and then at Malfoy... 

She couldn’t stand it anymore – she needed it all to stop. She rolled up her left pyjama sleeve and when she saw her cuts she remembered something else – how Malfoy had grabbed her arm and how much it had hurt. 

There were fresh scabs over the wounds, delicate and loose, edged with crimson smudges. Habitually, Hermione started to pick at the letters. The caked blood came away easily and satisfyingly. 

The pain she felt as her cuts opened again – sharp and localized – and the fresh blood she saw, startling in its brightness, was a welcome distraction from the memories of the night before. 

* * *

By lunchtime, Hermione had almost recovered from her hangover. Ginny had brought her back some breakfast from the Great Hall – dry toast and crumpets wrapped in a napkin – and stood over her bed for far too long, looking down at her with a frown of concern. She had reminded Hermione of Molly in how she had hovered and fussed, saying that maybe Hermione needed some fresh air and they should go for a walk. But Hermione had insisted she was okay, that she just needed to rest for a little longer, and eventually Ginny had gone, muttering something about finding Harry and preparing for Quidditch practise. 

By mid-morning, Hermione was able to stomach most of the breakfast left-overs that Ginny had brought her. An hour or so later, she felt able to move without retching and the pain in her temples had reduced to a dull ache. She managed to shower before heading outside the castle for the fresh air that Ginny had recommended. 

She wandered into the main courtyard, unsure where she was aiming for...Ginny and Harry would be at Quidditch practise...maybe she could go to Hagrid’s...

Hermione slowed in her stride as she spotted a group of people sitting on the low wall that ran around the perimeter courtyard: Zabini, Nott, Malfoy, Pansy and Daphne Greengrass. And oddly, Padma – whose hand was casually caressing Daphne’s knee – and Parvati, who was sitting in between her twin and Zabini. 

Yet again, her stomach lurched precariously. The group, which had been chatting and laughing amongst themselves, fell silent when they caught sight of Hermione. She was sure that if she looked more closely she would see judgement in their eyes. She suddenly felt vulnerable and very alone, standing on her own in the middle of the courtyard as a group of her fellow schoolmates stared at her, silent and hostile. She hadn’t felt like this since her first year at Hogwarts: the odd one out, the loner, the ‘unpopular one’. 

But still, she hadn’t been the only one in the wrong. She still remembered the way Malfoy had fisted his hand in her hair and crushed his lips against hers – remembered the words he’d spat in her ear. She’d decided she wasn’t going to report it – it would cause much more trouble than it was worth – and after all she’d gone through, it just seemed too much to think about just then. 

Speaking of which, Hermione saw Malfoy rise to his feet and start walking towards her. She contemplated turning and hurrying away but, as was becoming familiar when Malfoy was around, her body seemed to want to do the exact opposite to her mind. So she stayed standing until Malfoy stopped a few feet away from her. 

His eyes were rimmed in red, and Hermione wondered if his hangover had been as bad as hers. He looked at her cautiously, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I – er – I just wanted to say that...about last night...well –” 

“Hermione!” Pansy Parkinson was half-walking, half-jogging up to them. “Hermione,” she repeated brightly when she reached them. “How’s your head?”

“It hurts. My head hurts,” Hermione replied dully. She wondered if both of them were planning on recounting her actions from last night and telling her what an awful person she was. She forced her legs to move, turned and began to stride determinedly away. 

“I’m not surprised!” Pansy exclaimed, starting to walk beside her, much to Hermione’s dismay. She noticed that Malfoy didn’t follow them. “You were hilarious last night – the stuff you  _ said! _ ” 

Hermione cringed at the shrillness of Pansy’s voice. “I don’t think many people were laughing.” Despite herself, she couldn’t help but look back at the courtyard wall, and noticed Malfoy rejoining the huddle of people there. Pansy followed her gaze. 

“Oh, don’t worry about them,” Pansy said dismissively, as the two girls walked out the courtyard and onto the grassy slope beyond. “They’ll get over it. Forming their own little House that lot.  _ Gryfferins  _ I call them.” 

“Padma's a Ravenclaw,” Hermione corrected impassively. 

“Oh, yeah... I suppose that doesn’t quite work then. But honestly, don’t beat yourself up for what happened last night. Sometimes, people need to hear the truth.”

“I called Parvati a whore.”

“Well,  _ technically _ ...she was. She gave sexual favours in return for goods – for information, rather than money, but still.” 

“That’s twisted logic. I heard she genuinely liked – or likes – Zabini.” 

“But it’s logic nonetheless.” 

There was a silence and Hermione hoped that maybe Pansy had run out of things to talk about and would go away. Why on earth was she following her anyway? Pansy had never made a secret of the disdain with which she held Hermione and her friends, and it had been fairly clear that the feeling had been mutual. But then...she had helped her last night, intervening at the fire and walking Hermione back to the castle. 

“Thank you,” Hermione found herself saying. “For last night.” 

“Oh. No worries,” Pansy replied dismissively. “We’ve all been there – getting far too sozzled and saying things we later regret. Even if those things have a ring of truth about them. You were wrong about Draco, though,” Pansy commented. 

“What?”

“His dick,” Pansy clarified. “Being little and potentially not working. Believe me, it's not and it does.”

Hermione’s stomach clenched. “Oh, I don’t want to know!” she protested, which seemed to amuse Pansy because the girl let out a mirthful laugh. “What’s going on with you two anyway?” Hermione asked, remembering vaguely that Malfoy and Pansy had some kind of history. She wasn’t sure why she asked; she wasn’t sure why she cared. 

“Oh, absolutely nothing is  _ going on _ with us anymore. That's all over. Too much has changed…the war…” Pansy’s voice trailed off and Hermione was sure she detected a profound sadness in her tone. 

“Yeah, a lot has changed,” Hermione agreed quietly. “Although in some ways, I feel like I’m in the first year, starting all over again.” She didn’t know why she was telling Pansy such things, and part of her mind was ringing a warning bell that she should stop. But she found the words tripping off her tongue. “Like I’m the odd one out again.” 

“Are you serious?” Pansy’s voice was incredulous. “You think  _ you’re  _ the odd one out? Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age, best friend of the boy-who-lived, war heroine, blah, blah, blah!?” 

“Hmm...that’s all part of the problem...” Hermione said quietly. “Sometimes I feel like I might suffocate from the weight of other people's expectations.” 

Pansy halted in her stride, and Hermione felt like she had no choice but to come to a stop beside her. Pansy looked at Hermione appraisingly, causing her insides to flinch at the scrutiny. 

“Maybe you need to do what  _ you  _ want, not what you think other  _ people  _ want. Do what makes  _ you  _ feel good.” Pansy smiled conspiratorially. “I’m sure you can get away with it...being the aforementioned Hot Gryffindor Princess.” 

Hermione cringed. “Hardly.” 

Pansy frowned, her eyes narrowing as if she was attempting to understand something. “Merlin’s right  _ tit _ , Hermione, you have no idea of your own assets do you?” She tilted her head appraisingly, and carried on thoughtfully. “But of course you don’t...that’s part of your appeal,” Then her tone changed once more, firm and definitive: “You're  _ very  _ attractive, Hermione. Your bone structure is awesome. You have these lovely, full lips. Your hair is a tragedy – but there’s things we can do about that.…” 

Hermione cringed inwardly as Pansy continued. She’d never heard anyone describe her like that; even her parents had never really been complimentary about her looks – the Grangers just didn’t find appearances important.

“And you’re intelligent. Shrewd,” Pansy was not ceasing the awkward barrage of compliments. “I bet you can suss people out in an instant. You’re articulate – you'd win any verbal spar and I’m sure you have great powers of persuasion. Hermione Granger, with the right know-how, you could  _ rule  _ this school. You have so many tools at your disposal. But tools are only valuable if we know how to use them.” Pansy’s lips curled up into a sly smile. “Want me to teach you how?” 

* * *

That evening, Hermione sat curled up on the window seat of the Gryffindor Common Room, her _ Advanced Ancient Runes  _ book open on her lap. The seat had surpassed the armchair by the fire as her new favourite spot; these days, she preferred to be on the periphery, looking in. 

She’d finally cracked the translation for the rune passage she’d been struggling with when Harry, who was sitting on the sofa by the fire, ripped a small purple book from Ginny’s hand and sprung to his feet, exclaiming, “No fucking  _ way _ !” 

Ginny abruptly stood up too, a fierce frown on her face. “Harry, don’t overreact!” 

Harry was looking down at the book, frowning confusedly and flicking through its pages. “I can’t see anything – the pages are empty. Are you sure that’s what it says?” 

“You wouldn’t be able to see it because it’s  _ private _ , Harry. Alethea explained it would be invisible to anyone but me – it’ll be the same with your one!” 

Hermione put her own book down and sat up straight, her interest stirred by her friends’ raised voices, as well as the mention of Alethea’s name. The book in Ginny’s hand looked familiar: the size, the embossed emblem on the front, the shade of purple. It was exactly the same as the one she’d been given for the ‘therapeutic matching’ intervention, which now sat in the drawer in her bedside table. Something twisted in Hermione’s insides at the realisation that Ginny – and Harry too, by the sounds of it – were also having talking therapy sessions with Alethea. Why hadn’t they told her? 

“But you said it says it – it says your therapeutic match is Blaise  _ Zabini _ ?” Harry’s voice was shrill and disbelieving. 

With a start, Hermione remembered that it was the evening that Alethea would be revealing people’s therapeutic matches; she hadn’t thought much about the project since she’d discussed it with her. 

“Yes, Harry. That’s what it says,” Ginny clarified defiantly, reaching forward and snatching the book back. 

At their increasingly raised voices, more eyes in the common room turned to Ginny and Harry. Seamus, Dean, Parvati and Neville, who were sitting at the study table, put their quills down, stopped their chatter and turned to observe the unfolding drama. 

“Well, you obviously can’t do it. You’ve heard the rumours about Zabini, Ginny,” Harry said angrily. 

“They – the magic – wouldn’t have put us together if there was going to be anything dangerous about it,” Ginny replied exasperatedly. 

“Well – well, maybe it’s faulty,” 

“I – I think Harry might be right,” another voice joined the discussion, a quieter and less quarrelsome voice. Hermione turned and saw Neville frowning into his own Binding Book, which he’d opened at the table. “Mine says Pansy  _ Parkinson _ ?” 

Seamus made a snorting-guffawing sound as Neville declared his fate, and Dean smiled in a kind of sympathetic amusement. 

“Oh, I’m pretty pleased with mine,” Parvati said with a small smile, her own purple book opened in front of her. “I’ve got matched with Hannah.” 

“You’re doing it too?” Hermione couldn’t help but ask, and at Neville’s questioning look, she clarified: “Going to therapy?” 

Why hadn’t her friends told her? It somehow felt like a betrayal, that they were going to therapy sessions and hadn’t told her; that she’d been left to feel as if she were the only one that was broken in some way...but then, that was all rather hypocritical of her, because  _ she  _ hadn’t told anyone about going to therapy either. 

Neville shrugged. “Didn't think it seemed like a bad idea...not after everything that’s happened.” 

Or maybe, judging by Neville's comment, it just didn’t seem like such a big deal to them. 

“ _ I’m _ not having any therapy, if it makes you feel better, Hermione,” Seamus quipped. “Neither’s Dean.” 

Dean looked askance at Seamus. “Er, yeah I am, mate. I wanted to see a Muggle therapist though, so McGonagall’s letting me out of Hogwarts for appointments every week.” 

“A Muggle therapist doesn’t count though, does it?” 

Hermione was distracted from Seamus and Dean’s discussion by Harry’s raised voice. 

“Ginny,” his eyes were fixed on his girlfriend, standing metre or so away from him, the light from the fire causing her hair to glow blood-orange, “You have to say ‘no’ to this – please. Surely you can see this might endanger you? The rumours? A Slytherin? An ex-Death Eater?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry,” Ginny snapped, hands on her hips, indignant and defiant. “And don't you dare dictate to me who I can and can’t spend time with! Who did  _ you  _ get, anyway?” 

Harry fumbled in his pocket, pulled out another purple book and opened the cover. His mouth curled up into a distasteful, confused kind of sneer. 

“Daphne Greengrass,” he said, bewildered. 

Ginny raised her eyebrows in bemusement before her expression became fierce again. “Right. And how would you feel if I got all weird and possessive about you doing this – this therapy thing with her?” 

“Well, I think that would be silly. Because the rumours about  _ her  _ are quite different to the rumours about Blaise Zabini. I'm really not her type. Being  _ male  _ and everything.” 

Ginny scoffed dismissively. “Yeah, it  _ would  _ be silly. But not because she’s gay. But because I would  _ trust  _ you, Harry. Even if it was Romilda-fucking-Vane all over again!” 

“Hermione,” – Harry turned her – “What do you think?”

“She thinks you’re being ridiculous – don’t you Hermione?” Ginny turned her fierce gaze towards the window seat where Hermione sat. 

She knew her friends were expecting her to give them both validation, which was an impossible task when they believed such contrary things. “Well, I mean, with Zabini’s reputation – I can see what Harry means –” 

“See!” Harry’s voice was triumphant. 

Ginny looked at her accusingly. Hermione squirmed – why was she always being torn in such different directions? 

“But! BUT! If Zabini were to try anything, or get forceful – which is unlikely because none of that was proven anyway – Ginny can defend herself, Harry. She’s as good a fighter as you. Seventh child of a seventh child and all that...” 

Now it was Harry’s turn to look at her as if she’d betrayed him. 

She wanted the window seat to open up and swallow her, knowing she’d disappointed both of them. Pansy’s words from earlier in the day came back to her:  _ maybe you need to do what  _ you  _ want, not what you think other  _ people  _ want. Do what makes  _ you  _ feel good _ . The sentiments felt incredibly appealing. 

Harry turned back to Ginny. “I just don’t like the idea of him being...around you that much,” he said sulkily. 

“What do you think is going to happen? He can’t even use his wand – you really think he's a match for me?” Ginny’s face was getting a particular shade of red, which all the Gryffindors recognised as her bespoke warning sign. “Unless - unless this is about something other than Zabini’s reputation, and it’s about  _ me _ ? Surely... _ surely  _ you trust me? Because that’s what feels missing here? After  _ everything  _ Harry!? I  _ love  _ you – I’ve fucking loved you since I was  _ eleven _ ! Isn’t that enough?” And with that, Ginny turned on her heel and stormed out of the common room. 

Harry’s shoulders visibly sagged as he watched Ginny stride away. He had a distinct expression of regret that Hermione recognised as one he wore when he knew he’d totally ballsed up. Hermione heard him swear under his breath before hurrying after her. 

“Enjoy your make-up fuck!” Seamus called after him, causing Dean to burst out laughing and Neville to chuckle into his Binding Book. 

Hermione hated it when Harry and Ginny fought, but that wasn’t the only reason why her stomach was churning uncomfortably. She felt confident that Ginny could hold her own with Zabini; she wasn’t  _ worried  _ about her with Zabini, but it was just that the match didn’t make sense. What could Ginny possibly  _ need  _ from Zabini? What on earth could he offer that would help her ‘heal’? And the same could be said about Pansy Parkinson and Neville. 

But her disquiet, as with most things, felt shallow, like the light ripples on the surface of a lake, when underneath the body of water sat still and unmoving. The numbness she felt meant she could easily brush her concern away. 

Her curiosity, however, was kindling like the most stubborn of cinders and she couldn't help but wonder who  _ she  _ had been paired up with. She put her rune book aside, climbed the stairs to her dormitory and retrieved her own Binding Book from the drawer of her bedside table; it was already getting buried under a stack of parchment. 

When she opened the cover and read the name scrawled on the first page, she couldn’t help but think that Harry and Neville may have been right, and that the system – the charm or potion or both – was faulty. For there, in sloping silver letters, she read the name of the person she’d been matched with: 

_ Draco Malfoy.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your kudos, comments, thoughts and constructive feedback are cherished and treasured!


	10. The Binding Books

_Drawn by the undertow / My life is out of control / I believe this wave will bear my weight / So let it flow … Those who feel the breathe of sadness / Sit down next to me / Those who find they're touched by madness / Sit down next to me / Those who find themselves ridiculous / Sit down next to me … In love, in fear, in hate, in tears / In love, in fear, in hate, in tears..._

\- Sit Down, James. 

* * *

“Ooooh yeah! I got _Red_!” Blaise exclaimed gleefully. 

Draco shifted his eyes from the Muggle Studies textbook on his lap and looked up from where he was sitting on the sofa opposite Blaise in the common room. 

“Red?” Draco queried, irritated he’d been distracted from trying to wrap his head around the idea of Muggle kitchen appliances. Why did most Muggles have an electric kettle when they could just as easily heat water up on their hob? 

Blaise was grinning down at a small notebook in his lap. 

“Yeah, Red! For Alethea’s let’s-buddy-you-up-and-it’ll-solve-everything-project! Honestly, I was dubious at first but now it looks like it’s going to be fun! Think how much it’s going to wind Potter up for me to be hanging around with his girlfriend, doing ‘healing’ tasks together!” Blaise laughed gleefully. 

The disjointed pieces of information that had been cascading around Draco’s mind slotted into place: ‘Red’ was the Quidditch clique’s nickname for Ginny Weasley, so coined due to how her robes and hair made her look like a burning red flame when she flew across the pitch. Draco eyed his school bag at his feet, where his own Binding Book lay. 

“Maybe don’t wind up the Boy Who Lived too much, mate,” Theo, who was sitting next to Blaise, remarked dryly. “Remember how he took down a megalomaniacal dark wizard?” 

“Oh, I’m sure I won’t need to do _anything_ to wind him up. The very fact I exist and will be able to go anywhere near Red will wind him up. Who’d d’you get anyway?” Blaise gestured to Theo’s purple notebook which he’d just retrieved from his pocket. 

Theo opened the book and Draco watched closely as his friend’s eyebrows flickered into an almost imperceptible frown before his expression became characteristically composed and nonchalant once more. 

“Luna Lovegood,” Theo stated flatly. 

Upon hearing the name, it felt as if someone’s hand had clawed through the wall of Draco’s abdomen and was twisting his intestines into tight knots. Images flashed in his mind’s eye: damp stone walls, a dirty, tear-streaked cheek, pale blond hair smattered with crimson dots of blood. Since the end of the war, Draco had avoided seeing, speaking to, looking at or thinking about Luna Lovegood as much as possible. Thank Merlin he hadn’t got her as his partner. But then, why on earth _would_ he? 

“You got Loony _Lovegood_?” Adrian Pucey, who was sitting at a nearby table, mocked. 

“No, you fucktard. I got _Luna_ Lovegood,” Theo replied calmly and coldly. 

“That chick with the white hair, so pale she looks like the walking dead?” 

“Yes, her. _Luna_ Lovegood,” Theo replied tightly. 

Adrian put up his hands in a mock surrender gesture. “I honestly thought her name was Loony. That’s what everyone’s always called her.” 

Theo turned to Adrian, his face steely. “Are you fucking serious? _Why,_ in the name of Rowena’s saggy tits, would that be her real name?” 

“Well, to be fair, the word ‘loony’ does come from ‘luna’, because it was thought people’s mental states were associated with the moon, especially womens’,” Blaise commented cheerfully. 

The group turned to look at him. There was a moment of mildly stunned silence, which always followed occasions when Blaise said anything mildly intelligent or knowledgeable. Theo’s glare was particularly accusing, as if Blaise had betrayed him in some way, and Blaise seemed to recoil slightly at the sight of it. 

“But – I mean – the meaning of ‘loony’ has changed now – to something derogative,” Blaise stammered, then looked at Adrian, and said with forced passion and derision, “So yeah, _why_ in the name of Rowena’s saggy tits, would that be her real name?” 

Adrian raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised at the vitriol of his fellow housemates. He rose to his feet and shook his head sadly. “Merlin, you people need to chill out. You’re no fun anymore.” Then he sauntered away, leaving the other three boys alone. 

Theo turned back to his book, looking thoughtfully down at where Lovegood’s name was no doubt scrawled on the page. 

“Who’d you get, Draco?” Blaise asked brightly, clearly trying to change the subject. 

Draco reached down into his bag, fumbling about until his hand finally clasped around his Binding Book. For the past week or so, since he’d agreed to take part in the project, he’d felt apprehensive about who he would be partnered up with. He’d – possibly naively – hoped for Theo or Blaise, but those options were clearly out now. He really hadn’t wanted to do the stupid therapeutic matching task in the first place, but had felt obliged; he’d felt that the Ministry would look down on him if he chose not to. 

With a heavy heart he opened the book and read the name that had appeared on the first page. His heart stuttered in disbelief. He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut, thinking maybe something had gone wrong with his vision. But when he opened his eyes, the same name glared back at him, mocking and irrefutable. 

The book felt like it was burning his hand. He wanted to throw it away – get it as far away from him as possible – maybe hurl it into the fire and let it burn to ashes. Instead, he clumsily tossed it towards his bag. Infuriatingly, it missed and landed on the wooden floor with a thud. 

“Woah, that bad? Did you get partnered with _Pansy_?” Blaise joked, which was unfortunate timing because, at that moment, the girl in question was walking across the common room from the girl’s dormitory, behind Blaise and hence unseen by him. 

“No, he didn’t. _Idiot_ ,” Pansy clipped, hitting Blaise around the head with her own Binding Book as she walked passed behind him. 

“Ouch!” Blaise reached up and rubbed the back of his head. “Bitch,” he remarked jovially as Pansy elegantly sank down onto the sofa next to Draco, crossing her stockinged legs. 

“Because I got Neville Longbottom,” Pansy continued slyly, her mouth turning up into a calculating smile. 

Draco recognised that expression. It meant Pansy was in the process of working out how she could turn what may be a disadvantageous situation on its head, so that she could benefit from it. 

“Longbottom? You seem pretty pleased with that? Don’t tell us you wanna follow in the wake of Hannah Abbott? _Riiiiide_ that Longbottom sword?” Blaise accompanied his words with a rather repulsive, crude gesture. 

Pansy’s lips turned up into a sneer. “Don’t be disgusting,” she snapped dismissively. “My parents’ pre-term prep talk this year involved encouraging me to make alliances with the people that have come out of this vile war at the top of the social hierarchy. And, astonishingly, those people include Neville Longbottom.” 

“Ah. You're going to work your charms on him so that you’re new best buddies?” 

Draco wondered if Pansy’s new-found mission was also the reason she'd spent so much time talking to Hermione Granger earlier that day. But Draco really didn’t want to think about Hermione Granger. A sharp pain was starting to punctuate through his head, as if someone were drilling right through his left eye and into his brain. He’d started getting migraines in the summer and they only seemed to be getting more frequent. 

He’d been surprised that he hadn't been called before McGonagall for assault after what had happened at the Lake party the night before. Maybe Granger hadn’t reported it yet, and was pocketing it away as blackmail material for later. Although that wasn’t really Granger’s style....or rather, it hadn’t _used_ to be Granger’s style...

Draco really didn’t know what had gotten into him, what had made him want to bury his hand in Granger's curls and push his lips onto hers, what had made him hiss vile things into her ear. It was as if he’d just wanted to get _any_ kind of reaction from her, even if it was negative. Because, for some inexplicable reason, he couldn’t stand to see the dead dullness of her eyes, or hear the lifelessness of her words. And clearly, he’d drunk way too fucking much of the cheap shit that Pucey had gotten from Hogsmeade. 

He’d tried to apologise to Granger earlier that day but, irritatingly, Pansy had got to her first. Besides, he was not sure _how_ to apologise – not genuinely, not _truly_ ; no one had ever taught him – so he still didn’t know what he’d intended to say. 

“This whole thing is bullshit,” he mumbled, leaning his head back against the sofa and covering his face with his hands; the light of the common room felt severe and blinding. Then, knowing there was no way out of it, he said into the darkness: “I got Hermione Granger.” 

There was an immediate guffawing sound of amusement and incredulity; Draco knew that had come from Blaise. But Theo and Pansy were silent, which made Draco reluctantly squint his eyes open at them. 

Theo was nodding his head slowly, as if taking in the news. “That could be...interesting,” he remarked neutrally. 

Pansy’s eyebrows were raised slightly. It was hard to read her reaction, which was potentially dangerous when it came to Pansy; Draco always preferred to know what she was thinking. “Well, this whole thing could be interesting,” was all she said. 

“Or just the catalyst for another almighty clusterfuck, as if my life needed another one of those,” Draco said bitterly. 

No. There must be something wrong with the magic. How, in the name of Salazar, could he possibly have anything useful to offer Hermione Granger? 

“It’s got to be a mistake. I’m going straight to that bloody mind healer tomorrow to sort this the fuck out.” 

* * *

The next morning, new text had appeared on the second page of Draco’s Binding Book. He read it as soon as he woke up. 

_⚭⚭⚭_

_Your First Task_

_Your first task should hopefully be a straightforward one, and it is twofold!_

_Please arrange a time in the next two weeks to meet up with your partner for this task. We expect you to spend approximately two to three hours on it overall._

_**Part one:** _ _To break the ice a little, eight questions will appear in this book. You and your partner are to ask one another each question and answer each honestly. Don’t worry_ – _the questions won’t be too taxing! For example, they will be questions about likes and dislikes._

_You can ‘pass’ (i.e. not answer) up to three questions between you. However, if you choose to pass, your partner can choose not to answer that same question too._

_When you are with your partner and ready to start the task, write ‘Start task 1’ in this book and your questions will appear in turn!_

_At least one of you must write the answers down in this book. The book will know if an answer is false. It is impossible to write an untruth in this book._

**_Part two_ ** _**:** The second part of the task is also simple enough! Together with your partner, agree on a book that you’ve both read or that you’ll read before your first meeting, and when you meet, discuss the book! _

_It can be any book, of any age, Muggle or magical, just as long as it’s been published._

_Please write a brief summary of your discussion in this book._

_Any questions, please write them here and the book will answer (remember, your partner will see anything you write!) or ask Alethea._

_Have a great first task!_

_⚭⚭⚭_

Absolute...fucking...bullshit _,_ Draco thought before pushing himself out of bed and heading to the showers. 

A little later, as he sat in the Great Hall for breakfast, Theo leant towards him and said quietly, “Draco...are you sure it's a good idea for you to do this therapy-matching thing?” 

Draco frowned. “What d’you mean?” 

“Well...it possibly means getting close to someone...whether you like it or not...and that could be hard with...you know…your family history and it’s – it’s unique relationship... familial love thing...” Theo faltered, looking pleadingly at Draco, as if not wanting to have to explain himself any further. 

Draco's stomach churned as he realised what Theo was referring to – something that had never been voiced between them, something that not even the Malfoys spoke of explicitly – but which Theo, in his observant, razor-sharp way, had clearly picked up on. 

“It’s fine,” Draco snapped. “It doesn't matter anyway because I’m going to Alethea right after breakfast and pulling out.” 

Draco didn’t miss the flicker of relief in Theo’s eyes. “Right. Okay then,” he said placatingly, and turned back to his toast. 

Draco’s eyes unwittingly drifted over to the Gryffindor table; rather oddly, Granger hadn’t appeared there for the duration of breakfast. 

Once he was finished, he strode purposely through the halls of Hogwarts to Alethea’s office; he had about fifteen minutes before lessons started. Draco knocked so fiercely on her door, his knuckles stung with the force of it. 

“Draco,” Alethea said pleasantly when she opened the door. “Come in.” 

Draco marched up to the low coffee table in the middle of the room and tossed his stupid little purple book down on the table with a loud thud. 

“It’s faulty,” he stated confidently. “There’s something wrong with your matching system. I can’t – it can’t have got it right. Not for me, anyway.” 

Alethea, who’d come round to stand on the other side of the coffee table, raised her eyes in surprise. 

“It’s funny you should say that, because Hermione Granger was standing in this very office only ten minutes ago saying the exact same thing,” she said calmly. 

Draco instinctively turned his lips up into a sneer. Of course Granger would have gone running to Alethea, crying that she couldn't bear to spend any time with Big Bad Malfoy, couldn't stand to breathe the same air as him. Well, at least if she had asked to be given someone else, her wish had probably been granted, which got him out of this shitty situation. 

He grunted in acknowledgement. “Right. So it _was_ an error. So, I’ll be re-matched.” 

“Oh, no. It wasn’t an error,” Alethea smiled awkwardly. “I’ll admit that, considering you and Miss Granger's history, your pairing up was a little unexpected. But this intervention, the potion and charm, have gone through rigorous testing. I’ve checked and rechecked the magic for this matching in particular and everything has been done correctly. It seems that you and Miss Granger both have something to give to, and to learn from, the other. From a mind healing point of view.” 

“That’s – that’s,” Draco bit back a swear word and instead settled for: “That doesn’t make any sense. I’d be as useless as a mute mandrake to her.” 

Alethea gave him one of those small smiles, the ones that nearly tipped over the edge into being pitying but never quite reached it. “Well, I suppose time will tell. During the research studies, this magic paired up some unlikely people, but by the end of the tasks it was clear why they’d been matched...if you don’t want to do this, I will respect that decision, although I think it would be a shame. Not least because Miss Granger is willing to go ahead with it.” 

Draco’s knees felt a little weak. He sank down onto the chair behind him. “She was happy to go ahead with it, despite being partnered with me?” he asked, disbelieving. 

“Well, maybe ‘happy’ isn’t the most accurate word, but – I’m sure she wouldn't mind me saying – she was aware of what she’d committed to, and she said that once she’d committed to something, she wanted to see it through. She had a lot of questions about how the magic worked and, once I explained them all, she seemed reassured that there hadn’t been an error.” 

Pain sparked up in Draco’s temple; his migraine was returning yet again. There seemed to be no way out of this. If fucking Granger had agreed to carry on, _he_ couldn’t very well opt out, could he? That _really_ wouldn’t look good in Alethea’s end of term report to the Wizamgamot. 

He leant forward, clasped his hand around the book and hauled himself up from the chair, unable to stop a heavy sigh escaping his lips. 

“Fine. Fine, I’ll do it,” he mumbled, before striding out of the office. 

* * *

“Granger!” 

The class was just spilling out into the corridors after their DADA lesson. Hermione came to a halt at the sound of her name being called behind her, her heart thudding as she realised who the voice belonged to. 

She reluctantly turned to see Draco Malfoy hurrying towards her. Nott and Zabini, who’d been flanking him, hung back out of ear shot. 

“Right,” Malfoy started when he reached her. His voice sounded bored, but she also recognised the hint of something strained in it. “I don’t like this any more than you probably do, so let’s try and make it as painless as possible, yeah? We need to talk about where and when and what.”

“Fine,” Hermione said. She’d aimed to put more passion into her voice but it came out in the same lifeless way she was starting to recognise in herself. 

She’d known as soon as he’d called her name that he would want to talk to her about the mind healing project. After speaking with Alethea, she’d decided to just go ahead and push through the bloody thing. She consoled herself with the knowledge that the first task didn’t sound too horrendous. 

“So. A book,” Malfoy shuffled his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes flitting anywhere but at her face; she didn’t think she’d ever seen him so fidgety. So _awkward_. “Right up your street. You probably came in your pants when you read about that,” he said dryly. 

“Why do you always seem to be talking about me orgasming or having sex?” She couldn't help it, the words just slipped out her mouth; they were a genuine query, not just a mindless retort. 

He blinked rapidly, his head jerking back ever so slightly, as if confused for the briefest moment, before his expression turned into a familiar cold one. Nevertheless, her ability to cause him to lose his composure, even for the briefest of moments, felt like a victory of some kind and she had to suppress a smile of triumph that twitched at her lips.

“Let’s make this quick,” he clipped, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Fiction or non?”

“Fiction?” Hermione suggested. “It’d be a break from studying.”

“Fine. Muggle or magical author?”

“You’d read a Muggle book?” 

“Wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

“Erm...I don’t know…” Hermione suddenly felt overwhelmed by the choice, which was somewhat annoying; she knew this would have been an easy decision to make in the past. “Are there any you’d like to read, or talk about?” 

Malfoy rolled his eyes in apparent exasperation and looked over his shoulder at Nott and Zabini, who’d been talking in hushed voices whilst sending furtive looks their way. Hermione looked over her own shoulder, but there was no one waiting for her. She’d left the lesson with Harry and Ginny, but they obviously hadn’t realised she’d stopped, and had gone on ahead. 

“Look,” Malfoy said impatiently. “I don’t want to discuss this for longer than necessary. Maybe you decide on a book and just let me know, yeah?”

“So you can spend the whole time mocking my choice?” 

“Draco, mate,” Nott called out. “We’re going to be late for Transfig. And that new teacher hates us enough already.” 

“It would be _entirely_ your fault if we’re late for Transfig and I _really_ wouldn't be happy about it,” Zabini exclaimed in a rather impressive impersonation of Malfoy. Nott chuckled at what Hermione surmised was some kind of in-joke. 

Malfoy resolutely ignored his friends, keeping his gaze directed at her. “Look, you decide on the book, and I’ll decide on whatever it is we have to do for the next task. Think that’ll make it easier for the both of us, yeah?” Before Hermione could reply, he was taking a step back from her, readjusting his bag strap on his shoulder. “Message me in our bullshit books.” 

And then he was off, joining his two friends, and hurrying down the corridor as if he couldn't get away fast enough. 

* * *

“I mean, I know he was being all protective, which is kind of nice in a way but, really, it can also be a bit little... _patronising_ at times.” 

Hermione was sitting with Ginny underneath the oak tree by the Great Lake as Ginny recounted her fight with Harry when they’d all found out who their ‘therapy matches’ were. 

“So then he comes running after me, as you know, apologising. And, you know when he’s all regretful and self-torturing? It’s difficult not to forgive him when he’s like that, so we ended up in this alcove together,” Ginny’s mouth morphed into a conspiratorial grin, “You know, the one behind the new phoenix statue on the fourth floor? And he pushes me up against the wall –” 

“Ginny, please spare me,” Hermione interrupted, her tone dispassionate. “Harry’s like a brother to me. Imagine how you’d feel if I went on at you about what it was like shagging Ron.” 

“Urgh!” Ginny exclaimed, putting her hands over her ears. “Okay, point taken. Please don’t.” A rare smile tugged at Hermione’s lips at Ginny's reaction. “Well, anyway, I hope you’re going to this?” Ginny tossed a piece of parchment into Hermione’s lap. 

Hermione picked it up and read the words _Reconciliation Ball, 31st October 1998_ printed across it in elegant, slanting calligraphy. She’d heard of the ball – an effort by the teaching staff to aid the reconciliation between the Hogwarts students that had found themselves on the opposite sides of a war none of them had asked for. 

“Oh, no. No, I’m not going,” Hermione said dismissively, casting the parchment aside onto the grass. 

“What? But you have to! It's going to be _fun_ , Hermione! Remember that? That thing called _fun_? And I heard McGonagall is going to allow a little alcohol – for those of age.” 

Recently, Hermione had found socialising at the best of times exhausting. “I’d rather chew my own arm off,” she said dully. 

“Hermione –” Ginny started to protest again, but she was interrupted. 

“Hello!” a sweet voice lilted. Hermione and Ginny looked up to see Luna standing beside them, sporting a multi-coloured skirt and a jumper the texture of candy-floss. 

“Hi Luna!” Ginny chirped. “Where’re you off to?” 

Luna smiled pleasantly. “I’m going to show Theodore the thestrals.” 

Hermione squinted up at Luna. “Theodore Nott?” she snapped out, instantly realising how redundant her question was – as if there were any other ‘Theodores’ Luna could be referring to. 

“Yes. We met yesterday for our therapy task, and I told him about how I’ve been feeding the thestrals since my third year – how Hagrid showed me their home in the Forbidden Forest – and Theodore said he’d really like to meet them.” 

“You’ve done your task already?” Hermione asked, her stomach curdling. But then, it _had_ been five days since they’d been given the task. She still hadn’t even decided on the bloody book; she’d avoided thinking about the whole thing since her conversation with Malfoy.

“Oh, yes. We discussed _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_. He suggested the book...it was as if he knew I like rare animals,” Luna replied breezily. 

“Well...maybe he _did…_ ” Ginny said mock-mysteriously. “Did you notice how he kept staring at you at the Lake party, Loo?” 

“Did he?” Luna asked innocently. 

“Yep,” Ginny confirmed. 

“Oh…maybe the vivus lusibuses had got his attention. I wonder if he can see them too....but he seemed to be quite interested in what I was saying yesterday. He kept staring at my mouth, which made me think he was rather absorbed in what I was telling him, don’t you think?”

“Well, Luna, I suppose that’s what he might have been –” 

“But are you sure you’ll be okay, Luna? Going into the Forbidden Forest with Theodore Nott?” Hermione interrupted Ginny. 

“Of course! Why wouldn't I?” 

Hermione thought of Nott’s green and silver tie, his family’s reputation, of how he’d laughed along with Malfoy when he’d called her Mudblood in their earlier years. But then she thought of his tear-stained face as he’d left Alethea’s office…and it all left her feeling rather confused, so she ended up merely shrugging, and saying lamely, “No reason, I suppose…” Then, in an effort to change the subject: “Have you done your task with Zabini, Ginny?” 

“Nope, but we’ve chosen a book. Well, _I_ did. _Quidditch Through the Ages._ I thought: we both like Quidditch, we probably would have both read it,” Ginny shrugged, “Simple.” 

“Oh, well I hope you have a nice time with him,” Luna said. “I should go. The thestrals might not be very welcoming if Theodore arrives there before I can introduce them.” Luna turned and smiled down at Hermione, her eyes wide. “I hope you come back to us soon, Hermione. I miss you.” 

Hermione blinked, trying to make sense of what had just been said. She found she spent a lot of time doing that when she talked to Luna. “I’m right here, Luna?” 

“Oh. Yes. Well, your body is,” she looked around Hermione’s head as if searching for something. “And your soul is as well, which is great!” she beamed, as if satisfied. “But your mind is a bit lost, I think. I think it might be hiding – it’s understandable it might still be protecting itself. Maybe it will take a while for it to know it’s safe now.”

And with that, Luna turned away and started to make her way down the hillside. Hermione and Ginny looked after her as she started to skip, her hair bouncing lightly on her shoulders. 

“Did she just say that you’ve _literally_ lost your mind?” Ginny remarked, clearly bemused. 

“I think so,” Hermione replied resignedly. “But then, it often feels like I have, so…” 

Ginny looked at her solemnly for a moment or so, before her mouth curled up into an amused smile. “Well, as Luna would also say: ‘you’re just as sane as I am!’” 

Hermione forced a laugh, because that’s what Ginny was expecting – that her attempt at humour was enough to make Hermione feel better. 

But she really didn’t think she was as sane as Ginny. In fact, she wondered if she would ever feel truly sane again. 

* * *

Hermione stayed by the Lake well after Ginny had left, until the sun started to set and the air started to swell into a chill breeze, looking out at the black expanse of the water. Finally, when she realised she'd started shivering, she made her way back into the castle. 

The corridors were mostly empty, but halfway to Gryffindor Tower she saw Pansy Parkinson striding alone down the hallway towards her, a book clutched under her arm. 

Pansy smiled a smile that Hermione still didn’t trust and exclaimed, with what sounded like insincere joy, “Hermione! Hi!” 

“Hey,” Hermione replied more sedately as the two girls reached each other and came to a stop. Hermione eyed the book in Pansy’s grip: _101 Plants for Power and Prosperity._

“So, regarding the Reconciliation Ball, I thought I could help with your – “ Pansy looked Hermione up and down, at her dishevelled uniform and muddied trainers, looking distinctly unimpressed. “Outfit?” 

“Oh, no thanks, I’m not going,” Hermione wasn’t sure how she was managing to have this conversation for the second time in a matter of hours. 

“What? Why on earth would you _not_ be going?” Pansy looked genuinely put out. 

“Just...not my thing…” Hermione explained lamely. 

Pansy raised her eyebrows, tilting her head to the side appraisingly. “Hmm...well, there’s still time to change your mind.” Then, smugly and conspiratorially, she said: “In the meantime, there’s a party in the Slytherin Common Room in a couple of weeks. I’d like you to be my guest!” 

Hermione couldn't help but bark out a laugh. The idea of her going to a Slytherin Common Room party was not far off hilarious. 

“Sorry, Pansy, that’s not really my thing either. And I don’t even think I’d be let in.” 

Pansy frowned. “Firstly: you need to stop apologising all the time. Even to me. Secondly: yes, they’d let you in because I invited you and you’d be my guest. Thirdly: is it that it ‘isn’t your thing’, or is it just that other people wouldn't _expect_ it to be your thing? Because we’ve talked about you constantly giving into other people’s expectations.” 

“I – well…” she thought of her fellow Gryffindor’s faces, as well as some of the Slytherin’s, if she went to a party in the snake pit. Surprisingly, the idea of doing something that was so far removed from what they would expect of her was somehow appealing; freeing. And besides, she’d often wondered what the Slytherin Common Room was like, especially what could be seen of the Great Lake and its creatures from it. “Well...maybe but probably not.” 

“Okay, well the offer still stands,” Pansy said graciously, and Hermione appreciated how hard it seemed to be to offend Pansy; she felt she never needed to worry about upsetting or disappointing her. “Let me know if you change your mind.” 

Then Pansy smiled the smile Hermione didn’t know how to interpret and went on her way. 

* * *

That Sunday evening, Hermione looked at her stack of ‘to read and reread’ books on her bedside table and out of a frustration at her own indecision, picked one at random. 

She opened her Binding Book at the first blank page and wrote the title before she could start doubting her decision: 

_HG: Wuthering Heights._

She’d assumed it might be hours before Malfoy would read her message, let alone reply, so was surprised when the text flashed momentarily; Alethea had explained that that’s what would happen when both partners had their books open on the same page. Hence, it was a strong indication that whatever was written on that page had been read. 

She stared down at the page, waiting, but after a minute had gone by without Malfoy replying, she wondered if she hadn’t been clear. 

_HG: It’s a novel by_ – she started to write but a new scrawl appeared on her page: 

_DM: By Emily Bronte. I know._

_HG: You know Muggle authors?_

_DM: The Bronte sisters formed one of the most notorious witch covens of the nineteenth century. Branwell was a squib. That’s why he drank himself to death._

Hermione sighed. This tendency for the Wizarding World to covet anything good, anything renowned that had come from the Muggle one was a common way to denigrate Muggles further, whilst elevating themselves. There was a similar debate over Shakespeare. 

_HG: That theory hasn’t been proven. Some maintain they were Muggles, and there’s very good evidence that they were._

_DM: Whatever. At least it’s one of their shorter novels. Trust you to choose chick lit. We only have a week left to do this. How about Mon eve?_

_HG: It’s_ _classical literature_ _not chick lit!._ Hermione underlined repeatedly to emphasise her irritation. _I have Charms Club Mon eve. Tue?_

_DM: Quidditch practice. Wed?_

_HG: Duel_

_DM: Duelling Club. I remember._ They both went to Duelling Club. _Thur?_

_HG: Okay. Where do you want to meet? It’s meant to rain all week, we should meet inside somewhere._

_DM: Fine. How about that old Divination classroom in the North Tower? Do you know it?_

The classroom hadn’t been used for years, as far as Hermione was aware. Not many people knew about it but she wasn’t surprised that Malfoy did, after all the snooping he’d done in his sixth year. 

_HG: I know it. See you there at 7?_

_DM: See you there._

The text flashed a dull colour. She thought back to Alethea’s explanations and remembered that that indicated the ‘partner book’ had been shut. So Hermione closed hers too and put it on her bedside table, relieved Malfoy and her had at least come to a decision about what they were going to talk about in their first meeting. 

She scrambled about in the drawer of her bedside table until her hand clasped around a small vial, the contents of which she brought to her lips and downed in one go, before snuggling under her covers. 

The potion was meant to make sleep come more easily, without the suffocating shadows of nightmares, and she hoped, as she did every time she drank it, that tonight it would work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, huge, huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazing alphabetas. And thank you to everyone that's let me know your thoughts on this - I treasure reading your comments! They are loved.


	11. He's More Myself Than I Am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited about posting this chapter! There's so much Dramione goodness in it! 😁

_And I don't want the world to see me / 'Cause I don't think that they'd understand / When everything's meant to be broken / I just want you to know who I am / And you can't fight the tears ain't coming / Or the moment of truth in your lies / When everything feels like the movies / Yeah, you bleed just to know you're alive._ ****

\- Iris, The Goo Goo Dolls. 

* * *

Hermione arrived at the old Divination classroom at five to seven on Thursday evening. She’d wanted to get there early; for some reason, she felt as if she needed some kind of preparation time. To prepare for _what_ , though, she had no idea. 

The room was littered with faded cushions, which sat amongst low stools and tables; all were covered in a thick layer of dust. She settled herself on a window seat. The view normally looked out on the mountains to the east of the school, but that evening it was obscured by a sheet of rain and dark clouds. 

At exactly seven o’clock, Malfoy walked in. He closed the door behind him, barely acknowledged her and sauntered across the room towards where she was sitting. He looked down at the worn cushions, not attempting to hide a look of disgust on his face and waved his wand at a low stool, vanishing the dust, before sitting himself down on it. He made a bit of a show of getting settled, lifted his left leg up so his ankle was resting on his right knee, opened his Binding Book and finally looked at her. 

“Granger,” he said gravely, giving her a curt nod in greeting. 

“Malfoy,” Hermione mimicked his formal, distant tone. It didn’t seem to faze him; his expression didn’t change.

“Right, let’s get the fuck on with this then.” 

Hermione, in turn, was unfazed by his impudence; she wouldn’t have expected anything more from Malfoy. She opened her own book and wrote ‘Start task 1’ on the next blank page. It immediately came to life with text: 

_Welcome to your first task!_ _Here are your questions..._

  1. _What’s your favourite colour?_



Well, that was simple enough at least. Hermione looked up at Malfoy and noticed that he had a characteristic sneer on his face. He raised his eyes to her, his expression distinctly unimpressed. “I don’t have a favourite colour. Because I'm not five years old.” 

God, he was so petulant. Hermione wondered if he was so ill-tempered with other people, or whether he saved all his churlishness up just for her, because of what she was in his eyes. The thought made a wave of defiance rise in her.

“Fine. Mine’s green,” she stated, letting her annoyance show in her voice. 

Malfoy’s eyebrows raised imperceptibly and his expression softened, as if he were holding back amusement. 

“Slytherins don't have the patent on _green_ , Malfoy. It’s the colour of nature –” she gestured out the window, at the canopy of forest that would have been visible if it wasn’t for the relentless rain. “The colours of the hills, the grasses and the woods. I just find it…soothing.” 

Something flickered across Malfoy’s face; for a fleeting moment he looked sombre, before his expression turned sneering once more. “Right. Whatever.” 

It couldn't be more obvious that he’d rather be somewhere else. Hermione wondered why he’d agreed to the intervention in the first place. He’d probably felt he’d had to, she concluded, it was likely to be a condition of his sentencing that he attend talking therapy _._

“So. I assume _I'm_ writing this all down, am I?” she snapped out, before scrawling underneath the first question: _DM = none. HG = green._

The next question appeared, and to Hermione’s relief it was as harmless as the first one. She read it out aloud: “Two. What would be your last meal, if you could choose?”

Malfoy let out a loud scoff. “Well, that’s a bit morbid.” 

“I’m not coming up with these questions, Malfoy… I suppose it’s just asking what our favourite food is… Well...I think I’d like a Thai salad to start...with maybe prawns...then I'd love a roast dinner, roast chicken…that’s what my dad would make every Sunday at home.” She suddenly remembered the warm smell of roast potatoes and rosemary, and quickly forced the recollections away. “And then I do love a nice chocolate cake...or profiteroles, for pudding.”

Malfoy looked bemused. “That’s rather... _eclectic_ tastes, you have.” 

“Whatever,” she echoed what seemed to be his favourite word back at him. “Come on, what would be the last thing you'd want to eat if you were going to die the next day?” 

He made a face, somewhere between a smirk and a grin. “One of those Morgana underwear models. I'd love to eat one of them out, have them squirming and gasping under me.” 

“Urgh! You’re foul, you know that? And anyway, those Morgana models have an unnatural body size and shape! Not to mention, the underwear is horrendously expensive!” Hermione said contemptuously, twisting her features into a disgusted expression to emphasise her distaste at his words. 

She waited for him to answer the second question of the task properly, but he just shrugged and continued to look at her, unabashed. 

“That's it? Really? That’s your answer?” 

“Yep, don’t want to be wasting my last night on earth eating, even if it’s my favourite food. I’d want to be doing something much more fun.” 

She let out an involuntary huff, a sound she hated hearing from herself, and exasperatedly wrote in the book: 

_HG = Prawn salad, roast chicken, chocolate cake. DM = cunt._

“You’ve just written 'DM equals cunt'!” Malfoy objected, looking down at his own Binding Book, where her handwriting had no doubt appeared. 

“Yes. I did. And my writing’s not disappearing, which means the book’s recognised it as the truth!” Hermione tried to hide a smile; she was quite amused at herself. It was the first time she felt like genuinely smiling in ages. 

“And you’re saying _I’m_ foul.”

“Oh, I’m _sorry_ , does my language offend your sensibilities? I'll change it,” she said with mock concern. She scribbled in her book again. “‘DM equals twat’. There. Is that better?” 

His lips curled up again on reply, but she could have sworn that he was smiling rather than smirking. 

Hermione was rather surprised to see that her writing stayed on the page, proof of Malfoy’s honesty. On his last night on earth, he really would prefer to perform oral sex on a Morgana model than eat his favourite food, it seemed. 

As the next question appeared in their Binding Books, Malfoy’s expression quickly became grave. Hermione looked down and read the new words that had appeared there: 

  1. _What is your home like? Tell your partner about it._



Her stomach twisted at the thought of having to listen to Malfoy tell her about his ancestral pile. She continued to stare down at the words, wishing they would go away, willing her feeling of numbness to thicken so she could muffle out whatever Malfoy might say next. But what he did say was not what she expected. 

“Pass.” His voice was quiet and subdued, and Hermione felt instant relief at the word he’d uttered. 

There was a silence and she realised that he was waiting for her to answer the question. She looked out the window, at the droplets of water slowly creeping down the other side of the pane, and thought of her childhood bedroom stripped of all that had made it uniquely hers. “I don’t think I have a home anymore,” she found herself saying. 

There was another silence. Hermione didn’t want to turn back to look at Malfoy; she hadn’t meant to share that last sentiment with him and wished she could pluck the words out of the air from where they seemed to be lingering, and back into her mind. 

“Well,” Malfoy’s dry voice reached her. “It seems like we might have one thing in common, at least.”

Before she could think through what his words meant, Hermione felt her Book heat momentarily in her hand. She looked down and saw ‘Pass‘ written under the third question in Malfoy’s handwriting. To her relief, the next question quickly appeared: _4\. What music do you like?_

Something lightened in Hermione’s chest; this question was so much easier. She listed some of her favourite Muggle bands: Nirvana, Pulp, Green Day, Oasis. 

“And you?” Hermione asked once she’d finished. 

Malfoy shrugged. “Seven Sirens are probably my favourite band.” 

Hermione’s lips turned up in disgust. “Aren’t they the one with the awful, crude lyrics? What was that bit from one of their first singles? ‘I know what those lips should be blowing, you’ve got my cauldron all overflowin...my wand is made from the hardest of wood, I’ll let you touch it if you’ve been good’?” 

“That’s the one. Seems like you know them quite well.” 

“PavLav played them on repeat on our dorm gramophone for about two years.” 

“Who?” His voice was scornful. 

“Parvati and Lav – Lavender Brown. They were together all the time, and liked so much of the same things, it was as if they were one person, so we had a joint name for them: PavLav.” 

Hermione’s stomach was twisting nauseatingly again, and as she looked up at Malfoy, she noticed he once again had an unusual solemn expression on his face. 

“Right,” he said dully. 

Hermione tried to write ‘DM = Seven Sirens’ in her Binding Book but each time she tried, no sooner would the words appear than they disappeared. 

“It’s not letting me write it. Which can only mean that you’re not telling the truth,” Hermione said exasperatedly. Why would he lie about something trivial like that? 

Malfoy frowned. “That’s hippo-shite. How the fuck does the _book_ know what music I like?” 

“The magic that’s part of this...intervention seems fairly advanced,” Hermione offered in explanation. 

“Yeah, I heard you’ve done your research on it,” Malfoy’s tone was derisive. She wondered if, and how, he knew that she’d thoroughly quizzed Alethea on the task’s magic. “Fine. Okay. I like classical music. Michael Nyman’s probably one of my favourite composers.” 

“Oh,” was all Hermione could think to say, processing her surprise in Malfoy’s taste in music. 

This time, when she wrote the answer in the book, the ink stayed on the page, definitive and seemingly impermeable. 

As the next question appeared, Hermione’s stomach seemed to plummet somewhere near her feet. 

  1. _Tell each other about your family._



“Pass,” she snapped out quickly. She shifted her eyes subtly to look at Malfoy, saw him give a curt nod and heard him mumble something like, “Fine. I pass too.” 

She felt a wave of relief; she wasn’t sure what would have been worse – having to listen to Malfoy talk about his family, or being made to talk about her own. 

Hermione hurriedly read out the next question. “Six. What’s your favourite holiday destination? Or a place you have enjoyed travelling to? And why?” 

She felt more able to look directly at Malfoy now. She waited for him to speak, thinking that she had initiated enough of these discussions already. He looked beyond her, out the window, as he answered casually. “We went to Aeaea once, the summer before my first year at Hogwarts.” 

“Circe’s island?” Hermione asked, intrigued. It was a purely wizarding island, uninhabited except for a few witches and wizards who managed the tourism there. Only a limited number of people could visit each year and the permits got booked up years in advance. 

“I liked it. I think because,” – Malfoy’s voice suddenly became tight, as if he were forcing out his next words – “My parents – they seemed relaxed. I think it might have been the last time I remember them being genuinely happy.” 

Hermione knew there were layers to what Malfoy had just said; that his words needed unpeeling and unpacking of some kind, but it took all her energy to focus on what she needed to say next, without letting a volatile cauldron of overwhelming emotion spill over inside herself. 

“Mine was a skiing holiday I went on with my parents, in the French Alps, during the Christmas of our first year.” She looked down at her book and focused on getting her words out without the bittersweet memories consuming her. “I’d never been very good at skiing, but I felt like I finally got the hang of it that holiday. I could finally see what all the fuss was about – it feels so freeing, powering down the slopes like that – like what I’d imagine flying might be like, if I were better at.” 

She continued to look out the window, waiting for Malfoy to scorn Muggles’ desire to strap long pieces of plastic to their legs and slide down a mountain. But he just made a gruff noise of acknowledgement and after a moment she felt her Binding Book gently heat up, warming her thighs where it lay. She looked down and saw Malfoy’s scrawl under question six; he’d written their answers down. 

The next question appeared: 

  1. _What’s your favourite school subject?_



There was a frustrated sigh from Malfoy and Hermione looked over to see him throw his head back, looking up at the ceiling. “These are the _lamest_ questions _ever_!” he declared bitterly. 

Hermione smiled at his exasperation. “Well...I actually find that one quite hard.” She’d thought of this question before, of course and in earlier years she would have said Charms. But she was finding it so hard to concentrate on the subject this year. New ideas and information just didn’t seem to slot into her brain like it used to. Now, she probably felt the most calm and in control during duelling club, when wielding her wand. “Maybe DADA,” she said, surprising herself. “What about you?” 

Malfoy looked away, and seemed to study the moth-eaten carpet. “It probably used to be Astronomy, but I’m not taking that this year,” he said sullenly. 

Hermione remembered her snide remarks at the Lake, about him looking at his namesake, and felt oddly guilty. “Why not?” 

Malfoy shrugged, his eyes flitting to her, then quickly away again. “Just didn’t think it would go anywhere. Career-wise,” he mumbled. “So...after that I suppose it’s Potions.” 

After writing down their answers in the the Binding Books, the final question appeared: 

  1. _What do you hope to do when you leave school?_



It was something Hermione would have had a ready answer for in previous years, but now when she thought about her future, her mind was like a window iced up on a winter’s day – foggy, frozen and numb. 

She looked at Malfoy, who held her gaze for the longest time since they’d been in the room together. He looked defeated somehow, resigned, and Hermione had the oddest sense they were sharing in a mutual grief of some kind. 

“Pass,” they both said in unison, their voices expressionless. 

A strange, delicate silence stretched between them, until Hermione felt a sharp twinge of pain in her back – it was aching from how she’d been leaning on the hard stone of the window ledge. She grimaced and sat forward, arching her back, as she wrote ‘Pass’ down in her Binding Book. Then she decided to stand up and walk around the room to stretch out her muscles. 

She felt Malfoy’s eyes follow her as she did so. 

“Okay, so do we discuss your chick lit now?” he said, his tone impatient and abrasive, instantly changing the melancholic mood from a few moments ago. 

Hermione sighed, and bit back a retort about the incorrect genre he’d yet again categorised _Wuthering Heights_ into. 

“I suppose so,” she said, retrieving her copy of the novel from her bag and sitting down on a large cushion a metre or so from where Malfoy sat. She eyed him as he took his own copy from his pocket. It looked pristine, new. As if it hadn’t been opened. “Have you actually read it?” 

“Yes, I’ve read it,” he said defensively, avoiding eye contact with her. 

“Hmm…” Hermione wasn’t convinced. “Okay. Well, what did you think?” 

He tapped the book on his knee as he spoke. “This Heathcliff bloke’s an arsehole. I don’t get why the Catherine chick is so into him.” 

“Well, it was his upbringing that made him that way. He wasn’t treated very well, especially by Catherine's brother. He was always seen as an outsider in that family and probably didn’t have anyone that helped him feel that he was properly loved or that he belonged.” 

Malfoy frowned at her, but didn’t say anything, so she continued. "He’s a complex, flawed character. Kind of like an anti-hero; not very likable but you can still sympathise with him.” 

Malfoy screwed his face up in distaste. “Not sure _I_ can sympathise with him... Why do girls fall for arseholes? What’s that about?” 

“Catherine didn’t fall in love with him because he’s an arsehole. The point is, she loved him _despite_ the fact that he had flaws,” Hermione explained patiently. Although she was exasperated by Malfoy’s attitude, she was possibly beginning to enjoy herself; she was in her element with this kind of discussion. 

“Well, that makes no sense whatsoever.” 

“It’s not – it’s not a typical ‘falling in love’ tale in that regard. The love – the passion, or desire, or whatever you want to call it – is the primary driving force. And the passion they show for each other is echoed in the mood of the moors and the weather that surrounds them. The love is almost obsessive, almost irrational, and binds them together so unconditionally, it’s almost as if they’re one soul. Listen,” Hermione flicked through the book until she found the right page and proceeded to read one of her favourite passages: “‘He shall never know I love him: and that, not because he's handsome, but because he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made out of, his and mine are the same.’”

Hermione flicked forward a few pages, and continued to quote: “‘If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it. My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I _am_ Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.’”

She breathed in deeply – she’d run out of breath – and raised her eyes to look at Malfoy, waiting in anticipation to hear what he thought of the beautifully written dialogue. 

“So, do they ever actually shag?” 

She let out an impatient huff. “Probably not.” She annoyed herself by how prim she sounded.

“What? After all that, they don’t even fuck?” Malfoy sounded entirely unimpressed. 

“It was published in 1847! I mean, they never really properly get together before she marries Linton anyway.” 

“Thought I'd at least get to read a bit of smut,” Malfoy grumbled, like a small child disappointed with his present on Christmas day. “Hey, have you heard of fanfiction?” he said more brightly. “Maybe, if this is one of your favourites, you could write a story about this, ‘cause then you could add some smut scenes!” 

Hermione had learnt during her first year of Hogwarts that writing and reading fanfiction was a pastime enjoyed in the magical as well as Muggle world, after finding out that Ernie MacMillan actually wrote it; his favourite were stories of Bram Stoker’s _Dracula_. Hermione had read some, though, and she really didn’t think they were very good...not that she'd say that to Ernie. 

“Draco Malfoy, I'm _not_ going to insult Emily Bronte's memory and works by writing smutty _Wuthering Heights_ fanfiction!” 

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Was just a suggestion. You could have a plot – it wouldn’t have to be just porn, although those are probably the more popular ones… I'd read it!… What kind of smut do you think you'd write?” 

“Malfoy, we're going off topic –” 

“Come on, what do you like? What turns you on?” Malfoy asked, his mouth curling into a sly grin. He slid off his stool to the floor and moved towards her. “Dark and angsty, if this is anything to go by.” He waved his book before discarding it on the floor. “Star-crossed lovers? You went on about _Romeo and Juliet_ enough in Muggle Studies in fifth year,” – he’d reached her now and paused in his advance but continued to speak in a low, goading voice – “Where their attraction for each other is so powerful, it transcends all barriers and they can't help but end up ripping each others clothes off, and fucking so hard it's like they're _punishing_ each other?” 

Hermione didn’t – couldn’t – respond. Because something about the dark flicker of Malfoy’s eyes, the way he was so close to her, how the air around her was suddenly filled with his scent, made her forget how to speak. 

He leaned towards her, his face inches from hers and his eyes fierce and predatory, and said in a quieter tone, “Tell me Granger, what turns you on? Do you even know? I think you _do_ , I don’t think you're the prude everyone else seems to think you are –” 

“I -” But again, she couldn’t find the words to respond. It was as if his words had reached inside her and were strumming parts of her body in a delicious, intoxicating tune. 

“I bet you love this bit too: ‘If you ever looked at me once with what I know is in you, I would be your slave,’” He'd quoted the part from _Wuthering Heights_ from memory, “Do you like a bit of _kink,_ Granger?” His voice was taunting. “Fancy being someone's _slave_ ? Obeying demands so that you don’t have to think and that busy little brain of yours can have a break?... Being told what to do? Does that make you _wet_?” 

Hermione could feel her cheeks burning, and it was only when she heard herself take a deep intake of breath that she realised she must have momentarily stopped breathing. 

There was a pause as the both stared intently at each other. His expression was hard and intense, as if he were defying her to move away. But she had no intention of doing so. She didn’t know who moved first, who leaned towards whom, but suddenly their lips were crashing together. 

The kiss deepened quickly, their tongues dancing eagerly. She felt the heat of his hand reach out and grasp around her waist; it sent shockwaves of warmth through her body, loosening her muscles. 

Suddenly, there was only him, only Malfoy – the touch and the feel of him. Everything else faded away – the constant urge she had to be on the alert all the time, making her tense up like a tightly coiled spring, the blank look in her parents’ eyes, her awareness that it was recently taking her three times as long as usual to complete a Runes translation. Even the numbness fell away because her mind was suddenly how it used to be – keen and clear – but without the usual terror that came with the sharpening of her senses. 

It all melted and faded away, there was just the feel of his lips, and she wanted more of it – she wanted to keep forgetting – so she kissed him more eagerly and he moaned into her mouth in response, causing a bolt of pleasure to spark through her. 

She reached out, placing a hand on his chest, and pushed him so he fell back against a cushion behind him that was leaning against a wall. Without parting her lips from his, she straddled him, her skirt riding halfway up her thighs in the process. 

He adjusted himself so she was sitting comfortably in his lap, his hands resting on each of her thighs. He suddenly bit down hard on her lower lip, causing her to breathe out a moan which was muffled by his mouth. Each of his ministrations made a wet need grow between her legs; she ached to be touched there, and couldn't help but ever-so-slightly rotate her hips, so she was rubbing against him. The feeling of the friction, and of his hardness growing against her, caused another moan to escape her lips. 

She slowly pulled away from the kiss and tilted her head to the side, shaking her hair away to give him unhindered access to the bare skin of her neck. She glanced at him through half-lidded eyes and saw that his own gaze drifted from her shoulders to her jawline, his expression lust-filled and hungry. He leaned up towards her as her eyelids fluttered shut, his teeth initially grazing gently over the skin just below her ear before biting down uncompromisingly – sucking hard and making a stifled yelp escape her throat. But he didn’t stop, only bit harder. It hurt, but it hurt in a delicious way which sent ripples of desire through her. She knew he would be marking her with a rainbow of bruises, but she didn’t care. Because it seemed the more it hurt, the more she could forget. 

Finally, he pulled back from her neck, peppering kisses up to her jaw, mumbling as he did so: “Fuck, you’re so responsive...I love how responsive you are…” 

She let out a keening noise she didn’t know she could make, and kept her eyes closed, afraid that opening them and seeing him – seeing what they were doing together – would destroy the spell that seemed to have fallen upon her. 

His right hand travelled up her thigh, under her skirt, his palm coming to a tantalising rest just below her pelvic bone. So near...the thought of him touching her between her legs sent a bolt of heat straight to her cunt. As if in a tactile reply, she blindly stroked her hands down his torso, feeling the hard heat of him through his shirt, and rested them just at the top of his thighs. 

“Look at me,” she heard him say. 

She opened her eyes, but rather than looking him in the face, she looked down at her hands, absently running her finger over the cool metal of his belt buckle, then leant forward to kiss him again, but he pulled back in a short, abrupt movement. 

“ _Look_ at me” he repeated, his voice firm and commanding. He reached up to cradle her head between his hands and angled it so she had no choice but to meet his eyes. She looked into the storms of his irises, and was surprised to feel a peaceful, quiet calm descend on her. 

His eyes were challenging and penetrative, as if looking right through her, as if he knew _all_ of her. She grew still under his gaze. 

“Good girl,” he murmured with a quiet conviction, causing her to let out a whimper at his words. 

He moved his left hand to stroke a stray strand of hair back from her face. It was the most gentle gesture she’d ever seen from him. His gaze travelled down her face to her chest with such intensity her skin burned in its wake. 

He took her left hand in his, entwining his fingers in hers, and gently pulled her arm towards him, as if he wanted to look closer at her hand, as if he wanted to study every inch of her and he was just starting with that one small part. She yielded to his touch; she felt she would willingly bend her whole body to his will if that’s what he wanted. 

But then his brow creased into a frown. She followed his gaze and saw that her shirt sleeve had ridden up slightly and her bandage was poking out, just shy of where the blood often seeped through. 

She instantly froze, her muscles automatically tensing as she watched Malfoy eye the bandage, slowly rub the frayed edge of it with his thumb, and shift his eyes back to her, his expression one of subtle questioning and curiosity. 

Her senses were suddenly assaulted with a rush of clarity: edges appeared offensively sharp, colours nauseatingly vibrant, and the dim light in the room hurt her eyes. 

Her heart ratcheted in alarm at the realisation of what she’d just been doing. She yanked her arm from his grip, awkwardly and inelegantly extricated herself from him, stood up and scrambled for her books, her breath coming in short gasps. 

Thankfully, he remained still and silent, watching her as she stuffed her things into her bag and pulled it onto her shoulder. 

She didn’t look back at him as she hurried from the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, huge, huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazing alphabetas.  
> Your comments and thoughts are, as ever, cherished and treasured.


	12. Novocaine for the Soul

_ Life is hard / And so am I / You'd better give me something / So I don't die / Novocaine for the soul / Before I sputter out / Before I sputter out _

\- Novocaine For the Soul, Eels. 

* * *

Something was wrong. 

Something was very, very wrong indeed because Draco found that he could  _ not  _ stop thinking about the feel of Hermione Granger shifting about as she sat on his lap and brushed against his hardening cock, about the flush of her cheeks, the lust-filled look in her eyes, just the  _ feel  _ of her – warm and supple and so very fucking wanton… 

But it was all so wrong, because it was  _ her  _ and he couldn’t,  _ shouldn’t _ , be thinking like this – be wishing and dreaming and fucking  _ wanking  _ countless time to the memory of her – of them – in the old Divination classroom. 

Maybe he just needed a decent shag. He was a young, viral man, and Hermione Granger had just  _ been  _ there, and – and maybe he just needed good shag. A shag that definitely did  _ not  _ involve Hermione Granger. But when he thought about anyone else, it was as if his dick lost its appetite – he had no interest. Okay. So maybe it was just a one off – just something weird that had happened in the intimacy of that skanky room, after he’d decided to goad her with the words of Emily-fucking-Bronte. 

Why he  _ had  _ goaded her, he didn’t know. Maybe it was just that being an arsehole was part of his genetic make-up. Although Alethea was trying to make him question that. “Is there another story you could have about yourself, Draco?” she’d often ask. “Is there an alternative to the ‘I’m evil, dark and power-hungry’ story?” Well, considering the fact that he couldn’t seem to stop being such arsehole, clearly not. 

It was Saturday evening, two days after the clusterfuck of their first therapy task, and Draco had managed to avoid Granger ever since. It seemed as if she were avoiding him too, which suited him fine. There was no news of a second task yet, which was also fine with him; the Binding Books were magicked to momentarily glow and heat up when something new had been written in them, and his had remained still. 

He hadn’t told anyone about what had happened with Granger. He didn’t know how he would explain it, didn’t know how to make sense of it, wished it had never happened. Besides, neither of them could share what they talked about in detail, and that probably applied to what they  _ did  _ too, right? Which meant, to Draco’s relief, that Granger couldn’t have told anyone either. 

Except for Alethea or McGonagall. 

Draco nearly vomited in his mouth at the thought of that. 

“Okaaaay! Let’s get this party started!” Blaise burst out of the boys’ dormitory and into the common room, his hands raised in the air, brandishing an overflowing bottle of champagne. He wore a garish shirt which was only half-buttoned; black eyeliner and glitter were expertly applied to his face. 

With much gusto, he started singing the lyrics to a Suede song: “ _ Oh, here they coooo-ooome! The beeeeautiful oooo-oones! The beeeeautiful oooo –! _ ” Blaise’s eyes fell on Draco and he stopped abruptly, looking slightly alarmed. “Draco, where’s your drink? And is that a  _ book  _ in your hand?” 

“I don’t have a drink,” Draco replied tightly, although Blaise’s champagne looked quite tempting. It was from Theo’s stash, and Theo never had cheap alcohol, it was always the good stuff. He’d come loaded with a crate of Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame at the beginning of term. How he’d got it past Filch, Merlin only knew. 

“Well, we will have to rectify that!” Blaise declared. 

As if in response, Pansy appeared seemingly out of nowhere and placed a tray of full flutes on the coffee table, just as someone else turned the music up and the room started to fill with people, including the Patil twins, who’d been invited by Blaise and Daphne. Draco had long stopped being surprised at their presence in the Slytherin Common Room. He valued Daphne’s judgement, so ever since her relationship with Padma had been revealed, he’d respected the Ravenclaw girl. Well, he’d respected her ever since she’d refused to burn her Muggle book at the Book Burning Ceremony the Carrows had organised during the first week of their seventh year. And Parvati...he supposed, for a Gryffindor, was tolerable. 

Draco had really not wanted to come to this party, but staying in his dorm wasn’t really an option. The racket the Slytherins would no doubt make would penetrate his best silencing spells and he would inevitably get interrupted every ten minutes by one of his fellow housemates attempting to cajole him into joining the ‘fun’. Wandering the castle didn’t seem particularly appealing either, so he’d settled for sitting on a chair in the corner with a book, and getting quietly drunk. 

“Pansy! Someone at the door for you!” a sixth year called out. 

“Oh!” Pansy exclaimed excitedly, as she handed Draco a glass of Veuve Clicquot, and waved at whoever was in the doorway. “Hermione! Come in!” 

Draco choked on the champagne he’d just sipped, his body going tense. He was facing away from the door, and looked up at Pansy, hissing. “What the  _ fuck  _ is Granger doing here?” 

“She’s my guest! Hermione, here – have some Grande! It’s a 1990 vintage – one of the best!” Pansy replied, hurrying away from Draco to greet her guest. 

What the  _ actual _ , fuckity  _ fuck _ ? 

“Thanks,” he heard Granger’s polite voice behind him. 

He didn’t turn around, but kept looking down at his book. 

“Come and play cards! It’s how we always start off our parties!” Pansy exclaimed.

As the two girls approached the card table, Granger came into view, and Draco watched, unseen, from where he sat. She was wearing a knee-length leather skirt, which hugged her arse in such a delicious way it was almost obscene, and a long-sleeved,  emerald-green  lace top with a low neckline. Always long-sleeved – hiding that fucking bandage of hers, Draco thought. A black silk scarf was tied around her neck and something tantalising stirred in Draco as he realised what she was hiding in wearing it...as he remembered the marks he had left on her. 

Theo, Daphne and the Patil twins were sitting around the card table, with Theo shuffling a deck. Draco watched as Parvati glanced at Granger with an uncertain expression. Draco wasn’t sure if they had spoken since the Lake party. 

“Here Hermione, take a seat,” Daphne smiled warmly up at her. “I like your top! Have you played Hexing Hearts before?” 

“Er, once or twice. Exploding Snap is the card game of choice in the Gryffindor common room,” Granger answered as she took a seat and furtively glanced around her. Draco didn’t look away quickly enough and so their eyes met. He saw her lips part slightly and swore he saw a flush of red creep up her cheeks, before she quickly looked away, down at the cards that Theo was dealing. 

“So, there  _ are  _ some rules,” Theo said wryly. “Firstly, no one calls anyone else a ‘Death Eater’s whore’.” 

Draco saw Granger’s eyes go wide. There was an awkward silence before Parvati's face broke out into a grin, and Daphne and Padma burst into mirthful laughs. 

Granger’s lips turned up into an uncertain half-smile. She looked directly at Parvati. “I  _ am  _ sorry about that,” she said sincerely. 

Parvati shrugged “Apology accepted,” she replied, her voice luke-warm. “Have you brought your sickles? ‘Cause they play for money here.” 

“It’s the Slytherin way,” Daphne added, apologetically. 

“Oh – er – no, I don’t have any money on me.” 

“No worries, Hermione. I’ll lend you some,” Pansy dug on her pocket – she had bespoke clothing made for her with hidden pockets – and slid a handful of coins over to Granger. “I just want my investment back with interest, so make sure you win,” she said with a wink, before adding, “Just joking.” Granger gave a small, shy smile.    


Salazar’s saggy sack, why were they all being so fucking  _ nice  _ to her? 

Blaise was still singing loudly, dancing on his own in front of the fireplace. When he got hyped up, he couldn’t sit still long enough to play cards. He called to Draco again, “Draco, what are you  _ doing _ ? No one reads at a party! What  _ are  _ you reading, anyway? Please don't tell me it’s that  _ Withering Hips _ again? You must have read that about five times now!” 

“Wuthering Heights,” Theo corrected calmly, studying the cards in his hand. 

Draco’s stomach twisted as he saw Granger’s head snap towards Theo, then over towards him and Blaise. He had, indeed, first read Wuthering Heights when he was fourteen. The theory that the Bronte sisters had been witches meant their works were acceptable enough to be kept in the Malfoy library. But, for some inexplicable reason, he hadn’t wanted to admit any of that to Granger. 

“No, I’m not reading that,” Draco bit out. He was actually reading a book of Muggle poetry he’d started at the beginning of term; it’s where he’d come across the Longfellow quote that he’d referenced the night of the Lake party. 

He was aware of Granger looking subtly at him and felt the pricklings of pain behind his right eye – fucking migraines. He suddenly had a desperate urge to get away from her gaze and sprung to his feet, striding towards his dormitory. Because trying to read in the solitude of the boy’s dorm, even if he had to battle the drone of the party, maybe wasn’t so bad after all. 

* * *

Three hours later, at a few minutes to midnight, Draco was was still awake – he’d become intrigued by an article on the Muggle internet and hadn’t realised where the time went – when Blaise burst through their dormitory door, his limbs entwined around someone else – someone male and tall, with wavy chestnut hair.

“Blaise – seriously –” Draco began, but then quickly realised his protests were going to be in vain, because Blaise and the other man’s lips were glued together and they were doing a blind, stumbling walk towards Blaise’s bed. Blaise collided awkwardly against it, and the other man – who Draco now thought might be that Ravenclaw, Terry Boot – let out a muffled laugh as they fell onto the mattress, proceeding to grasp at each other’s clothes. 

Draco rolled his eyes in exasperation, flicked his wand towards Blaise’s bed so the curtains swung shut around it, and pushed himself to his feet. He really wasn’t going to hang around whilst Blaise shagged his latest conquest, no matter how good his silencing charms were. 

The state of the common room rivalled the state of the Great Hall after the final Battle. Smashed glasses, beer bottles and dubious stains littered the floor. The furnishings were awry, and there were spilled drinks on every surface. Yet again, they were going to have to bribe the Hogwart’s elves to clean up and not report them to the teachers. 

There were only stragglers left, although he noted that he couldn't see Theo, who hadn’t been in their dorm either. Pansy was standing in front of the sofas by the fireplace, swaying gently to the music, which was still playing quietly, a dreamy smile on her face. A couple of seventh years were passed out on some cushions by the window. Daphne was practically sitting in Padma’s lap; they were engaged in a deep kiss that appeared to have gone on a long time. Adrian Pucey was standing over them, mumbling something about ‘how sexy it all was’, which caused Daphne to break from the kiss and throw a cushion at him. 

“Piss off! We’re  _ gay _ , you slimy fuck!” Daphne spat out. “We’re not kissing for the titillation of straight  _ men _ !” 

As Daphne pulled Padma to her feet and the girls walked towards their dorm, Draco saw a familiar figure sitting on a sofa in the corner, her head resting against its back, looking up at the glass ceiling, her lips slightly parted and eyes wide in amazement. 

What the fuck was  _ she  _ still doing here? 

Draco found his feet propelling him forward so he was standing over her. “Granger. I think the party’s over.” 

Granger remained still except for her lips which curled up into a vacant smile. “But the colours,” she said, her voice unhurried and thick. She slowly raised an arm and pointed at the ceiling, where the darkness of the Great Lake could be seen through a large window. “They’re so...beautiful.” 

Draco looked up, following Granger’s gaze, but could only see blackness, with an occasional shadow passing across the watery depths on the other side of the glass. 

“Right. Well, _ I _ can’t see anything, so I think maybe you should get back to your dorm.” 

Her head lolled slowly upright, so she was looking at him. Something about her eyes made him immediately uncomfortable – they were like empty voids. “You can’t see anything? But that’s so sad.” Her voice was flat and expressionless. She patted the seat beside her. “Here. Sit. I’ll show you.”

Draco realised that Granger’s behaviour could not just be the result of too much alcohol, but something else entirely. What the fuck had she taken? He couldn’t leave her now, could he, tripping out of her fucking head? He found himself sitting next to her as her head lolled back against the back of the sofa once again. “Look,” she said. “The greens. There are so many shades of green.” 

She closed her eyes then and her head rolled slightly to the side, exposing her neck and the expanse of skin that swept down to just above the top of her breasts, her bra poking out ever-so-slightly from the emerald lace of her top. His cock twitched at the sight of it, and he had a sudden urge to kiss her tenderly on the collar bone. Then he immediately felt disgusted with himself at perving on her when she was so totally incapacitated. 

He mentally ran through the potential substances that could render her like this. When he’d developed a short-list, he was certain that Granger would not have brought them to the party herself. 

“Pansy,” he called out, and the Slytherin girl stopped in her swaying and looked at Draco expectantly. “What the hell did you give her?” 

“I like green,” Granger commented, her eyes open again. She turned to Draco and gave him a penetrating look, then said gravely, “But you know that already.” 

Draco pulled away from her gaze before he got lost in the depths of her irses. “Pansy?” he urged. 

“Oh,” Pansy waved her hand dismissively. “I just gave her a smidge of ecstasis with her drink.” 

“ _ Ecstasis _ ?” 

Ecstasis was a rare potion; only certain people, such as registered mind healers, were permitted to brew it. The potion sent the drinker into a euphoric, blissful state, although it caused the worst comedowns ever and was powerfully addictive . “She’s probably never done it before, Pans – she’s going to be extra sensitive to it! Did you even tell her you’d put it in her drink?” 

Pansy frowned and placed her hands on her hips, her indignation negated somewhat by how she then stumbled, before righting herself. “Of course I told her! And she was very welcoming of the offer!” 

“Fuck’s sake Pansy!” Draco exclaimed exasperatedly, 

Granger reached over and started stroking a hand down his cheek, saying solemnly, “Shhh...it’ll be okay...” Draco grabbed hold of her arm and thrust it away from him, pushing it down into the cushion between their thighs. “Oh,” Granger responded with dulled surprise, looking down with wide eyes at where his hand was gripped around her wrist. 

“She’ll be fine,” – Pansy gave another dismissive wave of her hand – “She’s Hermione  _ Granger _ ! Fighter of evil, robber of banks, rider of dragons, blah, blah, blah. A little ecstasis isn’t going to hurt her!” 

“She’s going to feel like shit tomorrow,” Draco said regretfully. 

Pansy’s lips turned up into a sneer. “I don’t think she’s as innocent as you think she is.” 

“What do you mean?” Draco snapped, as Granger's head dropped towards his shoulder and rested there. Her hair tickled his face irritatingly, but he could feel the warmth of her body as she leant against him, and it sent ripples of heat through him. 

Pansy leant forwards conspiratorially. “Apparently, Blaise saw her during the summer. In a Muggle club. Leaning against a wall with a Muggle man’s  _ hand  _ up her skirt.” 

“What? He must've been mistaken.” 

“Nope. He knew the guy and went to say hello, you see. Matt, I think was his name,” Pansy put her hands up in air-quotes. “‘Nice guy...amazing in the sack...pretty kinky’ – that’s what Blaise said. In fact, it was a pretty kinky establishment they were in, apparently. He doesn’t think she can remember though – apparently she was wasted.”

Granger’s face was now buried in Draco’s shoulder and he was distracted by her taking a long, deep inhale. 

“You smell really rather lovely,” she said in a sad voice that was muffled the thick wool of his jumper. 

“Well, she needs to get back to her dorm...to sleep...” Draco said helplessly, as Pansy continued to sway slightly in front of him. 

Pansy frowned in concentration, as if she were deeply pondering what Draco had said, then exclaimed determinedly: “Yep. Yes, you are  _ right _ ! I need to go to bed! You’ll get her back to Gryffindor Tower, won’t you lovely? Night, darling.” Then she blew a kiss at him, turned and stumbled to her room. 

“What? Great.  _ Seriously… _ ” Draco protested as Pansy disappeared from view. 

There was a quiet snuffle from Granger and, to his dismay, he realised she’d fallen asleep on him. What the  _ actual  _ fuck? He contemplated leaving her on the sofa to sleep it off. But then he thought of unscrupulous sleazes like Pucey coming across her when ecstasis was still swimming through her blood, and he reluctantly moved his arm, rousing her. 

“Come on,” he said gravely. “You need to go back to the lion's den.” 

Granger blinked her eyes open, and smiled vacantly. “Oh no, it’s lovely here,” she went to lean against him again. “Let’s stay here.” 

“No. Let's not,” he said determinedly, rising to his feet and pulling her up with him. “Let’s go!” 

It took far longer than it should have to get from the Slytherin Common Room to Gryffindor Tower. Granger kept stopping to examine the portraits. 

“That’s beautiful,” she murmured, gazing up at one. “Can you see how beautiful this is? Oooohhh, it just moved.” 

“They always move,” he retorted sharply, taking her arm gently and moving her along. 

As they passed the door to the kitchens, she halted abruptly. “Shall we get some food...I’m a little hungry....” she murmured. 

“Not right now, Granger, come on,” he continued to cajole her down the corridor. 

They’d reached the Entrance Hall when he noticed Granger was shivering. It was a common side effect of ecstasis, which stopped the body's capacity to regulate its own body temperature. Granger was still only wearing that flimsy lace top and the air was chilly this time of night; it was already the beginning of October. She didn’t seem to notice that her arms had started shaking, but Draco couldn’t help but be bothered by it. Eventually, he impatiently pulled his moss-green cashmere jumper over his head and thrust it at her. 

“Here,” he demanded. “Put this on.” 

She eyed the jumper, her eyebrows raised in surprise, and slowly clutched at it with her own hand, taking it off him. Painstakingly slowly, she fiddled with it, arranging it to pull it over her head, and smoothed it down her torso. It was stupidly big on her – went down to her thighs and drowned her arms. 

“Oh. It’s so soft...” she said wonderingly, hugging her arms to herself, and making him roll his eyes in exasperation. 

Finally, they got to the Fat Lady’s portrait, and Draco’s heart beat in alarm when he realised Granger might not remember the password. But she leant towards the Fat Lady, her hands cupping her mouth in exaggerated secrecy and said in a stage whisper, “Peppermint pygmies.” How on earth she thought he wouldn’t be able to hear her, he had no idea. Fortunately, the portrait swung open. 

“You’ll be alright from here, yeah Granger? You just need to get up to your dorm now.” 

She turned to him, her eyes penetrating again, reached out with one hand and cupped his jaw in her palm. “Your eyes...they make me feel…” She was clearly lost for words, because she just finished by repeating, quietly and sadly: “They make me feel.” 

There was something delicate and fragile in the air between them, but Draco was too tired to make sense of it, so instead he said gently, “Okay – well – best get to bed, Granger.” 

She smiled sadly at him again, before turning and climbing through the portrait hole, her movements surprisingly graceful considering how fucked out her mind she was. He hoped she could make it to her dorm from there; at least she’d got to Gryffindor Tower in one piece. 

It was only when he was halfway back to the Slytherin Common Room that he realised, with a sting of annoyance, that he’d forgotten to get his jumper back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is quite a bit shorter than my usual chapters (and this one was a smidgeon shorter too) so I'm going to post Ch. 13 as a bonus chapter mid-week, possibly next Tuesday! 
> 
> Huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazingly encouraging alphabetas.
> 
> Your kudos, comments, thoughts and constructive feedback are cherished and treasured!


	13. Burn Baby Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter time! I hope you enjoy this little one! 
> 
> I’ve cheated a bit with the chosen song because it was released in 2001 (not the 90s). BUT - the lyrics were just too apt to not use, and to me Ash will always be a band of the 90s, and as this is a ‘bonus’ chapter, I thought I could get away with it.

_ You walk like you're in a daze / Unresponsive eyes in a distant gaze / Like all the good times have flown away / And the memory leaves a bitter taste / Tumbling like the leaves / Yeah we are spiralling on the breeze / Destructive love is all we have / Destructive love is all I am _

\- Burn Baby Burn, Ash 

* * *

After the Slytherin Common Room party on Saturday night, Draco didn’t see Granger again until their DADA class  on Monday mo rning. She’d missed breakfast both that morning and the day before. Without realising, his eyes had started to unconsciously drift across to the Gryffindor table every morning to see if she was there. 

She was late to DADA by about ten minutes, mumbling an apology and sitting down at her desk in the ridiculous semi-circle that Ingleton still insisted on arranging them in. She did not look well. Her hair was even more unruly than usual, her complexion sallow and her eyes were rimmed with a dull purple.

She kept her eyes focused on the desk in front of her as the class chattered in a low monotone and Ingleton bustled around them, collecting the students’ latest homework. But when Ingleton got to Granger, there was a pause as the teacher waited, looking down at her empty desk.

“Your homework, Hermione?” Ingleton enquired. 

Granger’s eyes slid up to look at the teacher. 

“I – I haven’t done it,” she said in a quiet, resigned voice. 

The room went deathly silent. There was a stillness, laden with surprise and anticipation. It was unprecedented for Hermione Granger to have not done her homework. 

“And why, pray tell, have you failed to complete your homework, Miss Granger?” Ingleton questioned, clearly unimpressed. 

Draco watched as Granger shrugged. “I ran out of time. My schedule went...off.” 

There was a tense pause. 

“Your schedule went  _ off _ ?” Ingleton echoed, her voice low and incredulous. 

“Yes,” Granger stated, her expression unapologetic, uninterested. 

“Ten points from Gryffindor. You will have the essay on my desk by tomorrow morning,” Ingleton turned to walk to the front of the class. “I trust your schedule will go  _ on  _ again.” 

An odd sound erupted from Granger – a stifled bark of a laugh. Ingleton spun around and glared at her. “Is something funny?” she snapped. 

“Yes, quite a lot of things are,” Granger replied, her voice dry and tired. 

There was a ripple of murmurings and fidgeting through the class at Granger’s response which, like the lack of homework, was also unprecedented. Draco thought of what Pansy had said on Saturday night – about Granger fighting evil, robbing banks and riding dragons – and had to agree that redacting house points as a way of punishing her seemed absurd to the point of hilarity. 

But even so, that did not make Granger’s behaviour okay. It did not make it okay that her voice was so often devoid of any expression, that the light had died from her eyes, that she wasn’t handing in homework – homework that she really should have been able to do with her eyes closed. 

Ingleton glared at Granger for an awkwardly long amount of time. “See me after class,” was all the teacher said before walking to the front and starting the lesson. 

Draco glanced at Potter, trying to see whether Granger’s apparent best friend seemed to be grasping how very wrong it all seemed, but he appeared oblivious to anything except his girlfriend whispering in his ear as she stroked his thigh under the table; they were both smiling smugly at each other.

Motherfucking Merlin, Draco found himself thinking, how the fuck had this lot managed to save the wizarding world from the clutches of evil? 

* * *

Over the next week, Draco tried on several occasions to speak to Potter alone. He shouldn’t have been surprised that the Boy Who Lived was always surrounded by a fucking fan club – his girlfriend, or other groupies, or Granger herself – which made it hard to approach him. But finally, during a free period the next Monday afternoon, Draco spied Potter strolling down the hillside on his own, towards the half-giant’s hut. 

“Potter!” Draco yelled down the hillside and the boy in question, who was about fifty yards in front of him, came to a stop. 

Potter turned, a guarded expression falling over his face as he eyed Draco, who was striding to catch up with him. 

“Malfoy,” Potter greeted cautiously as he came within earshot. 

“Potter,” Draco said, trying not to let it seem as if he needed to catch his breath, as if he hadn’t been running after the fucking Boy Who Sucked. 

Potter waited, and Draco wished he’d thought more about what he was actually going to say once he'd managed to get him alone. “I wanted to have a word…about Granger.” 

Potter frowned. “Hermione? What about her?” 

“She just…you know she’s hanging around with Pansy a lot? Pansy Parkinson?” 

Potter’s frown deepened. “Is she?” 

“Yes. She came to a party in our common room the other weekend...and has visited a few times since.” 

Potter looked confused. “Oh...well...I suppose that’s probably about the reconciliation efforts and stuff...what with the ball and everything...Hermione’s the kind that would want to make the effort with that kind of thing…” Potter said doubtfully. 

“I’m not sure if this is about one of her goody-two-shoes missions, Potter.... And I really don’t think Pansy’s the best choice of company for her right now.” 

His old adversary's lips curled up in distaste. “Oh, so that’s what this is about? You have a problem with a Muggle-born hanging out with your ex-girlfriend? ” 

“No,” Draco snapped impatiently, biting back a cutting remark. “I just think she needs some decent friends right now...like you.”

“I'm still her friend,” Potter objected predictably. 

“Are you? Do you know she was off her face on ecstasis last weekend? And that DADA hasn’t been the only class that she hasn’t handed her homework in?” Draco could have gone on: had he noticed how she couldn’t leave her left arm alone for more than half an hour? How she reached to check her wand was still there every twenty minutes? But he held himself back. 

“Really?” 

Potter looked concerned now, troubled. Draco felt momentarily relieved he seemed to have finally got the message, a feeling that was quickly surpassed by irritation, and he couldn’t help bite out, “Maybe if you lifted your head out from between you girlfriend’s legs every now and again you'd realise what's happening around you.” 

Indignation flashed across Potter’s face. “Hey –” 

Draco instantly regretted his words. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful to Weasley,” Draco tried to placate Potter, but immediately ruined his efforts by continuing, “If she were my girlfriend, I'd want to spend most of my time with those legs wrapped around my waist too –” 

“Malfoy –” Potter’s voice was raised in anger. 

“Calm your tits, Potter. That was meant as a compliment. Came out wrong. She's not my type, you don’t need to worry.” Fuck, where had his filter gone? “Too…sporty. I like girls that are more…cerebral.” 

“Right,” Potter replied uncertainly. Draco could see that Potter was actively trying to calm himself down. And that he clearly had no idea what ‘cerebral’ meant. Why, except for maybe Theo, was Draco always surrounded by dumbfucks? “Well…. I’ll talk to her. Check how she’s doing.” 

Draco gave a curt nod, relieved his work there was done and the conversation was nearly over. “Good.” Draco was about to turn away, but something occurred to him, something which had been niggling at the back of his mind for weeks. After a moment of indecision, he finally pushed the question out. “And – erm - Potter... What happened to Granger’s parents?” 

Potter’s body went still. He looked thoughtful, cautious. “What do you mean?” 

“Well – I heard – I read they’re alive, but she – she talks about them in the past tense?” Draco had actively avoided the papers over the summer, so hadn’t taken in much of the gossip that circulated about Granger, but he had read one article which mentioned in passing that her parents had returned from Australia, where they’d spent the war. 

Potter looked grave. “Yeah...well...something happened but...but if she hasn’t told you, then maybe it’s not my place to say... Maybe you should ask her?” 

Potter was almost drowning in his own awkwardness, which actually made Draco feel a bit sorry for him. 

“Right. Okay,” Draco concluded, letting Potter out of his misery. Then, just as they both went to turn away from each other, he called out again. “Oh, and Potter?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Don’t tell Granger we’ve had this conversation, will you?” 

Potter shrugged. “Okay.” 

There was a pause as the two boys looked at each other. It was as if there were more words that needed to be said – words that were hanging silently in the air between them but were just out of reach. 

But after a moment, Draco nodded his head again, turned, and began the climb back up the hill to the school. 

* * *

It was nearly a week later, on Sunday evening, when Draco’s Binding Book came alive again and revealed the next therapy task. Despite watching her closely, Draco hadn’t spoken to Granger since the Slytherin party; when Pansy had invited her to the Common Room a few times since, he’d hastily made an escape to his dorm. 

Draco was lounging in said dorm with Blaise and Theo, the latter boy sitting precariously on a chest of drawers, strumming his guitar and singing Ben E. King.

“ _ When the night has come….and the land is dark...and the moon is the only light we see… _ ” 

Draco, who had taken to keeping his Binding Book in his pocket, reached for it when he felt it warm up. 

“ _ No I won't be afraid...oh, I won't be afraid...just as long as you stand, stand by me… _ ” 

He’d both wished that the next task would never come, and at the same time had been impatient for it to be revealed, just so the nagging anticipation would be over. 

He flicked the book open.

_ Your Second Task  _

_ Your second task is to partake in a physical activity with your partner! This should be something that can be done within Hogwarts Castle, or its grounds, and we encourage you to spend at least an hour and a half on this task. Please do not partake in anything that could be potentially harmful to you or your partner. A list of banned activities is below: _

_ Walking - although this is relatively harmless, it is not sufficiently complex enough to stimulate the development of relationships that are needed for this intervention... _

“Oh yeah, me and Red are going to get  _ physical! _ ” Blaise leered from where he was lying on his bed, holding his own Binding Book up to read, and causing Theo to halt his singing. 

“If you’re making another innuendo I can guarantee you that Potter will Avada you before you’ve managed to undo her bra,” Theo commented dryly. 

“And anyway, sexual activity is on the list of banned activities,” Draco added sullenly. 

“Nah, seriously, I’m not into Ginny like that – you know I’m never interested in people that are already taken... Well, I'm going to suggest flying. It’s something we both like – makes sense,” Blaise said with a satisfied finality that Draco envied. 

“How did it go with your first task?” Theo asked Blaise. 

Blaise shrugged. “We just talked Quidditch. She had a go at me for the fact that all my favourite players were Purebloods. I said that that wasn’t the reason I like them, but then she said maybe I had an ‘unconscious Pureblood supremacist bias’.” 

“What did you say to that?” 

“Made some facetious joke and changed the subject, of course.” 

Theo smiled wryly. “Well, she could’ve had a point. I’m reading this book at the moment –  _ Me and Pureblood Supremacy _ , it’s called –” 

“Sounds delightful,” Blaise quipped. 

“Written by Battersby, actually. And it’s a bit like a reflective workbook, where you go through all the ways society is systematically pro-Pureblood, or purist, and it makes you question your own biases. You should read it, mate. You both should.” 

Draco was only half listening. He was wracking his brains, trying to imagine what physical activity he and Granger could possibly do together – he knew it was his turn to decide on the specifics of their task – but his mind was well and truly blank. 

“What the hell am I meant to do with Granger? She’s as clumsy as fuck and hates sport,” he spat, his vitirol born more from agitation at his lack of ideas than derision at Granger’s physical agility. 

“She was a pretty sharp fighter during the Battle of Hogwarts, from what I hear,” Blaise said. 

“And from what I saw,” Theo added in agreement. He had been the only one out of the three of them that had fought in the battle. Well, that had fought on the  _ right  _ side.

“Are you suggesting we duel?” 

“No. With your and Granger's history, that’s the worst idea ever,” Blaise retorted. 

“Maybe suggest a low-key Muggle sport? Like extreme frisbee?” 

“Extreme whats-bee?” Blaise queried, and Draco also lowered his book to listen as Theo explained. 

“So...they basically throw a flat, circular object at each other and catch it? And that’s an extreme sport?” Blaise asked sceptically once Theo had finished. 

Theo frowned. “Actually, I’m not sure what makes it  _ extreme  _ exactly…” 

As Blaise commenced scribbling in his Binding Book, Theo continued strumming Stand by Me on his guitar. 

“This one’s not your usual music taste?” Blaise queried, as Draco stared down at his Binding Book, as if he could conjure an idea to appear there with this very eyes. 

Theo paused in his playing, and looked down at the carpet pensively, causing Draco to look up at him. 

“My mum used to dance around the kitchen to this at home, when she helped the house elves bake scones,” Theo murmured. “I don’t have that many memories of her, but that one’s really vivid. Her singing was beautiful…” It was only since returning to Hogwarts that year that Theo had started to talk about his mother. He’d rarely mentioned her in previous years, even though the Slytherins from their social circle had all known she’d died when Theo was eight. “Her dancing was pretty good too…” he said, his eyes far away, as if he wasn’t in the room anymore. 

It was Theo’s last sentiment that gave Draco the idea. An idea which had him reaching for his Binding Book and silver quill... 

* * *

_ Look into my tired eyes / See someone you don't recognize / Binds that can't be untied / Oh this is slow suicide / Feelings that I can't disguise / And later we'll be reconciled / Oh but something inside has died _

\- Burn Baby Burn, Ash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based the book ‘Me and Pureblood Supremacy’ on the actual book ‘Me and White Supremacy: how to recognise your privilege, combat racism and change the world’ by Layla F Saad. I’ve always considered myself as ‘not racist’, but since the killing of George Floyd in May 2020, I decided I wanted to do more, and I thought that beginning with myself, and addressing my own White privilege, was a good place to start. If you are White and want to be actively anti-racist and not just ‘not racist’ (I’ve learnt that there is a difference) then I recommend this book :o) 
> 
> As always, huge, huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazing alphabetas. 
> 
> Your thoughts and comment are, as ever, loved!


	14. What Step to Take

_‘And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.’_

― Friedrich Nietzsche 

_‘Forgotten what it's like to lose / Freedom and the right for you to choose / Which step to take / As we go through this life / Things can get a little bit twisted from time to time / But we know when it's right... / We'll find some place we belong / We've been shining in the dark / Holding on together / Just like children of the sun.’_

\- Children of the Sun, Feeder. 

* * *

Hermione was beginning to learn that there was something rather seductive about not doing what others expected of you. 

She was realising how suffocating the weight of other people’s expectations were. She’d always been expected to be rational, reasoned, to do the ‘right’ thing, make the ‘correct’ decisions, excel at every bloody thing that was asked of her… But over the last few weeks, she’d started to think that maybe Pansy was right – maybe she needed to stop sacrificing her own wants and needs because they didn’t fit with what other people expected her to do. 

It had actually turned out to be rather liberating, taking Pansy up on her invitation to the Slytherin party. She’d always wondered what what it would be like to look out of the Common Room windows and into the depths of the Great Lake – she’d always regretted not being able to go with Harry and Ron in their second year because she’d messed up her Polyjuice potion with that stupid cat hair. 

She hadn’t told any of the Gryffindors about going to the party – she hadn’t wanted to deal with the questions and the drama – and Parvati had kept quiet about it. It was as if the two of them had an unspoken understanding that they wouldn’t talk about their shared trips to the Slytherin Common Room. 

She’d heard a lot about ecstasis, and the idea of falling into a blissful oblivion had been just too tempting. So, when Pansy had surreptitiously waved the vial at her, she’d decided to try it. It was something the old Hermione would never have done; the old Hermione would have thought through all the possible consequences, probably researched the potions’ short and long term effects, then decided against it. 

It had lived up to its reputation. She vaguely remembered what had happened whilst she’d been on it, including walking back to Gryffindor Tower with Malfoy. Mainly, though, she recalled riding high on a feeling of blissful euphoria. 

The comedown from ecstasis had been absolutely horrendous though. She’d been incapcitated for the whole of the next day, lost in a black void of near-despair, her insides feeling like lead, her vision making shapes distorted and threatening. Ginny and Parvati had hovered around her bed on occasion, looking concerned, but she’d just managed to say she was ill, shut her curtains and asked them to leave her alone. It had thankfully subsided somewhat by Monday morning, but her brain had felt like it had been cracking in half and there had been no way she could manage getting her DADA homework done before the lesson. 

It had been rather interesting, witnessing other people’s reactions to that – the way she had yet again contradicted their expectations. 

That bloody kiss in the Divination classroom with Malfoy had been similar to ecstasis. She’d loved getting lost in it when it’d been happening, but the after effects were hard to deal with. She knew she shouldn’t have kissed him, shouldn’t have felt the way she did when his lips were on hers and his hands were stroking her thigh – it was all wrong. 

For the past weeks, she’d fluctuated between being determined that something like that would never happen again, and a new, reckless part of her that refused to care what it meant, what others might think...a part of her that wanted it to happen again. 

* * *

On Sunday evening, a couple of weeks after the Slytherin party, Harry plonked himself down opposite her at the common room table, where Hermione was hunched over her Transfiguration homework. 

“Hey, Hermione,” he said. The forced cheeriness of his voice instantly made her wary. 

“Hey,” she replied with a furrow of her brows, flicking her eyes up at him. 

“So...how are you?” Harry asked, shuffling about in his seat as if getting comfortable. 

Hermione’s frown deepened. “Fine,” she said cautiously. “How are you?” 

“Oh, I’m good thanks! Quidditch is going really well so far this year – we’ve got a great new team...although...don’t tell her but…'' Harry grimaced, “Ginny is definitely better than me. At quidditch. As in, _much_ better... And lessons are, well...these NEWTs are pretty hardcore, aren’t they?” 

“I suppose…” Hermione said dully. “Did you need help with something?” 

“Oh, no, no, it’s all good! I was just wondering how you were getting on with things? You’ve always managed to keep on top of your work, but with NEWTs being so hard, I just wondered if...if you were managing to this year?” 

A coil of suspicion unravelled in Hermione. Had he been hearing some kind of rumours? “Yeah, fine. I was a bit ill the other weekend, which meant I fell behind on homework a bit...but I’m nearly all caught up now.” 

Relief flickered in his eyes. “Oh, okay. Great!... I noticed you haven’t been around some evenings? Been getting up to anything exciting?” 

The coil of suspicion stretched itself taut. Had Harry heard about her going to the Slytherin party? Well, there was probably no point in lying about it. “I went to a...gathering...in the Slytherin Common Room the other weekend,” she forced her voice to sound casual. 

Predictably, Harry looked taken aback, but something about his expression made Hermione think the information was not entirely new to him. “The Slytherin Common Room? Why on earth would you want to spend your evening there?” 

Hermione shrugged, holding back a sigh of exasperation. Justifying her actions felt exhausting. “Pansy Parkinson invited me...and I always wanted to see what the Great Lake looked like from there, so…” Her voice trailed off into an awkward silence. 

“And how was it?” Harry’s eyes were uncharacteristically sharp. 

“It was fine…I played cards then...came back here.” It wasn’t a lie, but she knew she’d left out a whole chunk about the middle of her evening. 

Harry looked unsettled, but clearly didn’t know what else to say about the matter, because he then changed the subject. “Right, well...erm...I was wondering if you wanted to come for a walk with me? Maybe tomorrow afternoon, before dinner? I thought we could go and see Hagrid together? He said he hasn’t seen you since the beginning of term...says he misses you… It’d be like old times...except without Ron, of course...” 

Something twisted at Hermione’s heart. “Oh no, I don’t think so – think I'll have too much work…” 

She missed Hagrid, but visiting him would trigger too many painful memories – not painful in themselves, but painful because they would remind her of how differently things were from the times she used to stroll down to Hagrid’s hut with Harry and Ron, the three of them gulping on his tea and politely trying to force down his rock cakes. 

“Right...right, okay…” Harry faltered. He glanced to his side, to where Neville was sitting, then back at her and said more quietly, “How’s it going with your sessions with Alethea?” 

Hermione was taken aback by the question. Although it was now obvious who was going to appointments with Alethea, no one really spoke in detail about their sessions. 

“Fine...well...I mean, okay…” She wasn’t really sure how to sum up her sessions with Alethea, or express how they ‘were going’. They’d gone through what Alethea called ‘grounding techniques’. Then they’d discussed what kind of things Hermione could do to try and ‘connect with her body and the present moment more’, in order to try and reduce her feelings of dissociation or ‘derealisation’, another word that Alethea used. In her last session, Alethea had suggested it might be helpful to talk about her parents... “How about you, Harry?” Hermione genuinely hoped his sessions were going well, she really did, but the thought of him telling her in detail about the suffering he might be working through gave Hermione a sudden feeling of suffocation.

To her relief, Harry kept it brief. “Oh, yeah, fine too. She’s nice, isn’t she?” 

Hermione smiled. “I suppose.” 

There was another awkward silence. 

“It’s weird, isn’t it, school this year? Not having to worry constantly worry about the rise of a dark wizard. I mean – it’s great, just for things to be normal but...weird too…” 

“Yes, it is…” Hermione agreed, finally feeling a kinship with him. 

She realised they didn’t do this anymore – talk properly, about how they were actually feeling. Most conversations she had with anyone were fleeting and superficial – about Romilda Vane's new hair, speculations about Battersby’s sexual orientation, being quizzed by someone about the homework they were stuck on. 

When there wasn’t an existential crisis caused by imminent war, and possible death, everything else felt rather futile...trivial. She could never summon much interest in what others had to say – everything felt dulled, grey, monochrome. Also, she was increasingly aware that her mind was slower now, that her conversation was not witty or sharp; that _she_ never felt like she had anything very interesting to say either. So why Harry was insisting on this…’chat’ was beyond her...maybe something was wrong. 

“Harry, are you okay...I mean, really?” 

“Yeah! Yeah, _I’m_ fine! Are you?” 

Now the conversation felt as if it were going round in circles. “Fine, Harry. Fine. Well...if there’s nothing wrong, I need to get back to this homework…” 

“Right. Yeah. Sure. Glad you’re okay.“

She smiled uncertainly at him, then looked down and resumed scribbling out some notes, acutely aware that Harry hadn’t moved. After a few moments, she flicked her eyes up at him again to see him looking contemplatively down at her. 

“Hermione,” he started again. “What does cerebral mean?” 

“Cerebral?” 

“Yeah.” 

Hermione fished around the fogginess of her mind to articulate her answer. “The word cerebral relates to the brain. A cerebral activity requires careful thought or mental effort. A cerebral person is someone who thinks a lot. Who’s rational, intellectual, analytical. So...I suppose some people might say that I’m a cerebral person.” Or used to be, she thought to herself. “Why do you ask?” 

Harry shook his head dismissively. “No reason. Just something someone said to me a few days ago –”

Before Harry could continue, they were both distracted by something flashing in the bag at her feet – it was her Binding Book. Hermione scrambled to retrieve it and felt a sense of trepidation as she flicked through its pages; part of her wanted to avoid the book completely, whereas another part of her wanted to open it up and organise the next task as quickly as possible, like ripping off a plaster. At least it was Malfoy’s turn to decide what they were doing and she didn’t have to take responsibility for it. 

She heard a plethora of exclamations, jokes and innuendos as the students who had Binding Books read about the next task. After a few minutes, Ginny hurried over to them to inform them that Zabini had suggested they go flying. Harry looked a mixture of relieved and disconcerted at the news. 

Then writing appeared in Hermione’s own book: 

_DM: So, it’s my turn to decide on the task this time, right?_

Hermione didn’t have time to write a reply before his scrawl appeared once again: 

_DM: Do you dance, Granger? I mean, as in formal partner dancing?_

_HG: No,_ she wrote, her quill stabbing aggressively on to the page. 

Unless she counted the Yule Ball, Hermione hadn’t really done much formal partner dancing. She felt much more comfortable swaying and bouncing up and down on the edges of a mosh pit. The thought of doing something so... _intimate_ with Malfoy, which at the same time required a certain level of skill and coordination, made her instantly uncomfortable. 

_DM: Then I’m going to teach you salsa dancing._

Hermione’s stomach turned so violently she thought she might vomit. 

* * *

They arranged to meet the next Sunday, in the old Divination classroom again. At least it was somewhere they wouldn't be disturbed – the thought of anyone walking in on them whilst she stumbled about trying to learn salsa dancing made Hermione cringe right to her core. She’d disliked the idea of dancing as their ‘physical task’ so much, she’d contemplated laying out her objections to Malfoy and insisting they do something else. But she couldn’t for the life of her think of an alternative and, well, she just didn’t have the energy to argue with him. So she thought she would just grin and bear it and get it over with as soon as possible. 

She’d tried not to think too much about what it would be like to be alone with him again, alone for the first time since she’d got lost in his kisses...

He was already there when she arrived, standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets. She noted he’d set up a gramophone in the corner and had cleared away the cushions, low tables and stools to the side of the room so there was a clear, wide expanse of wooden floor. 

“Granger,” he greeted her. 

She didn’t say anything, just gave him a curt nod and a smile that felt more like a grimace, before putting her bag down at the side of the room. 

“So. You’ve not done much partner dancing before?” he asked casually.

It seemed, then, that they were going to pretend that what had happened the last time they were in this room hadn’t happened, which was fine with Hermione. More than fine. She could do that. She _could_ – despite the fact that when she looked at his face, all she could remember were his lips kissing hers, and when she looked at his body, all she could think of was the feel of his hands stroking her leg, the warmth if his breath against her skin –

“Granger?” Malfoy prompted, and Hermione realised it had been several moments since he’d asked his question and she had just been standing there, her eyes flitting around the space bordering his face, but never settling on it. 

“You asked me that already,” her voice came out more sharply than she intended. “No. Except for the Yule Ball, no. How the bloody hell do you know how to salsa dance anyway?” She knew salsa dancing was common in the magical as well as Muggle worlds, but she’d been surprised that Malfoy had chosen that particular dance, out of all of them, for their task. 

His lips twitched up into a smile, as if her agitation amused him. “A learnt a lot of formal partner dances growing up. Then, one of Pansy’s cousins from New York taught a few of us salsa when she came over during the summers,” Malfoy shrugged. “I always liked it, how it’s a mix between formal dancing – because you follow steps to a degree – and something more...free…” 

Hermione frowned, letting this new information about Malfoy sink in. “Right,” was all she could think to say. 

After an awkward pause, Malfoy stepped forward. “Okay. Well,” he said breezily. “First, we’ll learn the basic steps. If you stand there –” 

He gestured to about half a metre in front of him and Hermione obliged, both recoiling at, and drawn to, the thought of being so close to him again. “With salsa, it’s eight counts. The fourth and the eighth are silent, so we don’t step on that count. We start in what’s called the ‘neutral position’. Then the person that leads steps forward with their left foot – one – takes their right foot and steps in the same place – two – back with their left foot – three…” Hermione watched as Draco slowly moved his feet, demonstrating the moves. “The person that follows – their steps are the same except a mirror image. So…” Malfoy swivelled around so that he was standing by Hermione’s side, in the same direction. “Right foot back on the first beat…” 

Hermione followed his instructions as best she could. She was so focused getting them right, she was aware her body was stiff and awkward. 

“Okay, great!” Malfoy exclaimed after they’d gone through the eight basic steps several times. Hermione barely had time to register her surprise at his apparent enthusiasm and lack of derision, because he'd turned back round to face her and had taken her right hand in his left, and planted his other at the top of her back, just between her shoulder blades. She felt the warmth of it ripple pleasantly through her. “Your left hand goes on my shoulder,” he directed. “Let’s try the steps together.” 

Hermione tentatively lifted her hand to his shoulder. She could smell him when he was this close. It was a comforting scent – the same as his jumper that, for some inexplicable reason, she was keeping under her pillow. 

“One…” Malfoy began, taking a step forward. 

She awkwardly followed, mirroring his movements, relieved when she managed to do it properly and hadn’t stepped on his toes. 

“Good,” he stated. “Now, for some other moves…” She listened and learned as he talked her through the ‘right turn’ and ‘cross body lead’. Her tension eased slightly when she didn’t mess up – she didn’t want to give him any reason to ridicule her. 

“Okay, let’s try it with music now.” He flicked his wand out of his pocket, pointed it at the gramophone and the room was filled with a fast, vivacious tune. 

Oddly, she found the steps harder with the music – the loud beats and lively harmonies made it harder to concentrate on the right moves. 

When she messed up a right turn, Malfoy advised, “Just try to relax a bit – let your body move naturally.” 

“I _am_ relaxed,” she lied through clenched teeth. 

“Okay, but you keep initiating the steps. I can tell you’re thinking far too much. I’m the man – you need to trust me to lead, and all you need to do is follow.” 

She barked out a laugh. “Trust you? Well, I think that might be our problem right there,” she couldn’t help but spit out.

His face, which had been pleasantly animated up to that point, suddenly grew cold and closed. “Okay. Fair point,” he said quietly, before starting to dance again. 

Hermione reluctantly let him lead her. 

“And why does the man have to be the lead and _initiate_ everything, and the girl – woman – just have to follow?” She went on as he spun her around the room. She knew she was channelling her nervousness into a verbal attack, but carried on regardless. “That’s _so_ patriarchal, so bloody typical, with all these partner dances, it’s just a reflection of chauvinist values –” 

“Granger,” he interrupted, stopping the dance abruptly, which meant that she had no choice but to stop too. “Did the instructions for this task state ‘debate gender politics’?” 

“No,” she replied sulkily, as he flicked his wand for the song to start from the beginning. 

“Exactly. Just try and focus on the music, and how your body feels. Let your body move naturally to the beat. Try not to think about it too much, or anticipate my next move.” 

Urgh, he was so patronising! 

Although, she had noticed that when they _had_ got it right, she’d felt a lovely sense of satisfaction. So when they started dancing again, she tried to do as he’d advised – tried to focus on the music – just the beat and how her body moved with it. Tried to let go of the part of her mind that was constantly thinking, churning away, anticipating what he might do next... 

And there was a turning point – maybe halfway through the song – where she _got_ it. It was as if the music was flowing through her, and she was flowing with it, as if she and Malfoy were moving together in some kind of unspoken language...as he gently cajoled her body, softly indicating where she needed to go.

Her heart started skipping, but pleasantly, with a kind of exhilaration, and she even let out a few gasps of laughter...they continued dancing seamlessly into the next song and the next, with Malfoy initiating some new moves occasionally, which she easily picked up. 

As they continued, the mood changed from one of joviality to a kind of intimacy, their bodies continuously moving close then apart, in a sensual, alluring push and pull. 

“That’s good…” she heard Malfoy murmuring at one point. “Really good…” 

He swirled her around, away from him, prompting her to spin, and then pulled her gently back towards him again. She curled into him, finishing with her back leaning against his chest, her neck tilted slightly to one side, her head against his shoulder. She could feel the heat of him against her, and he didn’t initiate any further moves, which meant she stayed where she was, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to catch her breath. 

He moved her left hand so that both their left arms were lightly wrapped around her waist. 

“I’m not sure the name of this move...” he said quietly, his breath warm against her ear. He lifted her right hand with his own, raising her arm in an arc away from their bodies and back again, so that her forearm rested against his shoulder. 

“Leave your arm there.” His voice was soft but commanding. 

His fingers stroked lightly down her arm, sparking her skin and making her nerves pulse. Her body stiffened in reaction to how he was making her feel. Yet again, part of her mind was ringing alarm bells – calling at her to get away from him – but another part of her wanted nothing else but to melt into his touch. 

“Good girl,” he murmured huskily, sending a warm and seductive shiver through her. “Tilt your head to the left a bit more.” 

Her eyelids fluttered shut as she obeyed him. 

His breath ghosted up and down her neck, his left arm tightened around her waist, drawing her more closely against him, as his right hand trailed all the way down her right arm, down to her waist, and then back up again. It felt so good to be held like that, his body firm and strong against hers. 

She didn’t think they were dancing anymore. Or at least, this was a very different type of dance if they were. 

“I thought you might have returned my jumper to me today,” he murmured into her ear. 

Her heart quickened, remembering how she'd woken up the night after the Slytherin party still encased on the moss-green wool. She remained silent, trying to think what to say. 

“Any particular reason why you’re keeping it?” His breath was merely a whisper, and uncharacteristically teasing. It was so unlike him – this whole bizarre dancing exercise had been so unlike him – that she found the truth tripping from her lips. 

“It smells like you,” she muttered, and immediately knew she’d said too much. In those four words, there was too much admittance, too much implied about how she lay in bed at night, when the darkness felt like it was going to swallow her, holding his jumper to her face and breathing in his scent. His scent that reminded her of the shimmering grey of his irises, and the calmness and stillness she felt when she looked into them. 

At her words, she heard his breath quicken in her ears, and then felt him – growing hard against her lower back. The thought that she was doing that to him sent a rush of heat through her, and she found herself tilting her hips and pushing back against his erection. 

He let out the quietest of noises – a stifled moan – and she felt his mouth against her exposed neck. It wasn’t a kiss but a touch – just the touch of his lips against her skin. 

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured slowly and deliberately in her ear. 

But him stopping was the opposite of what she wanted. Her skin was crying out to feel the proper kiss of his lips and the graze of his teeth. 

In apparent response to her silence, he kissed down on her neck with a firmer pressure, his stubble scratching delightfully against her skin. Her knees weakened and muscles loosened, and wet heat rushed to between her legs. She tilted her head further, arching back against him, indicating she wanted more. 

He ran his tongue along her neck for the briefest of moments, then nipped at her skin before bringing his lips to her ear again. 

“Tell me to stop.” This time, his voice had a hint of urgency to it, a kind of pleading. 

But she only pushed her back further into his chest, keeping her eyes closed and her body still, willing him to carry on. Because, like last time, being like this with him was causing everything else to melt away – she was forgetting. The insidious terror and worry and numbness she so often felt was dissipating into a pool of pleasure and sensation. 

He bit down, his teeth encasing her skin, hard and punishing. She gasped at the pain – if that’s what it was – there was so much pleasure wrapped up in it too. She rocked herself more fervently against him, both their breathing quickening. 

“Tell me to stop,” his voice was harder this time – almost angry – but the sentiment of his words were contradicted by how he tightened his arm around her and pressed her into him. 

She couldn’t help but let a whimper escape her mouth, and it was as if the sound was a trigger for him – he pushed her abruptly and forcefully away from him. She stumbled as she turned to face him, trying to keep her face expressionless, despite the heat of a blush she could feel bleeding all over her cheeks. 

His face was contorted in a mix of confusion and anger. “This is – this _can’t_ – what the fuck _is_ this, Granger?” 

He advanced towards her, causing her to step backwards, until her back came up against the wall. 

“Grinding yourself against me, like – like a –” she could see him forcing his next words back as he came to a halt just inches from her. 

She squared her shoulders, held her chin up defiantly. She was not going to be made to feel ashamed for what she felt – she knew he felt it too. She looked him straight in the eyes and spoke firmly. 

“I didn’t hear – or _feel_ – you complaining.” 

It was a brave move, what she did next, but it didn’t take much effort because the lion in her was roaring: she reached out her hand and pressed her palm against the bulge that was still protruding from his trousers. 

He grimaced, as if he were fighting an internal battle with himself, and let out a stifled groan. His mouth parted and he was staring, _staring_ at her lips. She increased her pressure slightly and started moving her hand up and down in slow, rhythmic movements; the feel of him and the effect she was having on him sparking pulses of pleasure right to her core. 

Then his lips collided against hers, the force of the movement making her back sag against the wall behind her. The kiss deepened – their tongues sinking deep into each other’s mouths. After what felt like an age, but equally not long enough, he pulled back from her, stumbled backwards, and clumsily picked up his bag. 

“What the fuck are you trying to do to me?” he mumbled bitterly to the floor, before marching through the door and slamming it behind him with finality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, huge, huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazing alphabetas.
> 
> Your thoughts and comment are, as ever, loved!


	15. Reconciliation or Retribution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't replied to the comments from the last chapter - things have been busy this week and I've focused instead on getting this next chapter out. But please know I appreciate very one of your thoughts! 
> 
> Happy Christmas/holiday period folks! Thanks so much for following this story!

_ I need to hear some sounds that recognise the pain in me, yeah / I let the melody shine, let it cleanse my mind, I feel free now / But the airwaves are clean and there's nobody singing to me now / No change, I can't change, I can't change, I can't change / But I'm here in my mold, I am here in my mold. _

– Bittersweet Symphony, The Verve. 

* * *

Hermione knew it wasn’t right – how she couldn’t stop thinking about Draco Malfoy’s body pressed against hers, his mouth at her ear, whispering commands, the pulses of heat that rippled through her body as he stroked his fingers down her arm –

She could  _ not  _ stop thinking about it. Which, possibly, would have been fine – she was a young woman with an average – possibly higher than average – sex drive. But this was Draco  _ Malfoy _ . Why was it that  _ he _ , out of everyone, either sparked an untempered anger within her, or else made the dull, grey numbness melt away with punishing kisses? 

Maybe – maybe she just needed some physical intimacy – ‘to fuck’, as Ginny would crudely put it. Maybe it wasn’t about Draco Malfoy at all, and she would have felt the same with any other man at the moment. But she hadn’t felt the same with Matt, over the summer. The sex with him had served the same purpose as alcohol, or ecstasis – a distraction to the pain, but not an antidote for it...things felt so differently with Malfoy. 

But that didn’t make it right. She couldn't reconcile how he made her body feel with the person she knew he was – someone that, in previous years, had gone out of his way to despise and denigrate her, someone that had wished her  _ dead  _ when they’d been just thirteen years old. 

Her body felt like a traitor, the way it kept betraying her. And it seemed that Malfoy felt the same way. She remembered his face contorted in fury and confusion after they’d danced together – he clearly despised himself for touching and kissing her the way he had. 

Maybe she  _ did  _ need to fuck someone else. To get over him. Possibly. At least  _ kiss  _ someone else... 

“Hermione!” someone exclaimed, jolting her out of her reverie. Pansy Parkinson collapsed onto the seat beside her, where she was sitting in a corner of the library. 

“Hi,” Hermione said dully. 

“Hey! How are you?” 

Why was she always so  _ friendly _ ? It made Hermione wary because she could not gauge the sincerity of it. 

Hermione shrugged “Fine.” She kept her eyes trained on her Arithmancy book in front of her, but felt Pansy’s scrutinising gaze. 

“Hmm...good. So, I wondered if you’ve decided on a dress for the Ball yet?” 

Hermione’s brow furrowed suspiciously. “I said I wasn't going.” 

“Oh. I thought you’d changed your mind?” Pansy asked innocently. 

How Pansy had got that impression, Hermione had no idea. She hadn’t mentioned it since they’d first spoken about it. Ginny had brought it up occasionally, but Hermione had still refused to go, and Ginny hadn’t pushed it. 

“You seemed to have had fun at our party?” 

Hermione remembered how she  _ had  _ enjoyed the Slytherin party...and they  _ were  _ allowed to drink alcohol at the Ball, which was somewhat tempting...

“Yeah, it was fun,” Hermione replied politely. “Maybe...maybe I will go to the Ball...” 

“Great! So, I have this dress that I think would be perfect for you! We have slightly different figures, but I know the best tailoring charms. I think we could get it to fit really well. And it has a hidden pocket just for your wand – all my clothes do, you see, I make sure of it. You’ll look fucking stunning...unless  _ you  _ had a dress in mind you wanted to wear?” 

The thought of having to make a decision about her outfit felt exhausting; Hermione felt as ambivalent about what she looked like as she did about anything else at the moment. It seemed easier to go along with Pansy. “No, I don’t have anything in mind...but – whatever it is, I’d like it to be long-sleeved. Please.” 

Pansy’s eyes flickered down to Hermione’s left arm and her lips turned down slightly, but she continued brightly: “Fine! I can definitely work with that! Maybe come to my dorm on Wednesday evening? To make sure we have time to get it just right for Saturday! Oh, and don’t worry if you don’t have a date –”

“I’m not. Worried. I don’t want a date.” The thought of the drama and the social awkwardness of finding herself a date would have been enough for her to reverse her already tentative decision of going. 

“Good! That means you’re on  _ trend _ ! People that are already in couples will go together, but otherwise we’re just going with friends.” 

“Erm…okay,” and to Hermione’s relief, Pansy nodded contentedly, sprung up and sauntered away. 

* * *

Hermione slipped Pansy’s dress over her head and scrutinised herself in the mirror of the Gryffindor girls’ bathroom. Pansy had adjusted the dress so well, it hung perfectly on her figure. She’d done her hair and make up in the exact way Pansy had instructed, and barely recognised the face that looked back at her. Her hair was tied up with subtle but pretty clips, with a few smooth curls falling down and tickling her shoulders. Although the way she could barely recognise herself was slightly disconcerting, it was also oddly liberating, as if she were in someone else’s skin for the evening. 

At the last minute, she walked out the bathroom and down the stairs to the Common Room, where her housemates were waiting. When she entered, the chatter quieted as people turned to her look at her. There was an awkward silence, but Hermione summoned her Gryffindor courage and looked around at them defiantly. 

“Wow. You look fantastic Hermione!” Ginny finally broke the silence.

“Hot,” Parvati confirmed, nodding her head in approval. 

“Thanks. Shall we go?” Hermione said quickly, slipping a shawl around her shoulders 

“Your dress – it’s green!” Seamus exclaimed. 

“Yes. Yes it is. I like green,” Hermione replied. 

“I mean – it's  _ Slytherin  _ green, Hermione,” Seamus clarified, a hint of protest in his voice. House colours were somewhat sacred at Hogwarts and it was generally thought a betrayal of your own house if you were to wear the colours of another. 

She looked around the room. Ginny was in a deep crimson– she always scathingly dismissed the advice that red clothes would clash with her hair – and Parvati was wearing a lavender sari. All the boys were in black tie;  _ they  _ didn’t have to spend hours deliberating over their choice of outfit, which didn’t really seem fair to Hermione. 

“It’s just a dress, Seamus,” Her voice was more cutting than she’d possibly meant it to be. “Right, are we going to hang out here all evening ‘cause that’s not what I signed up for?” 

Seamus shrugged, mumbled something Hermione couldn’t hear, and turned towards the portrait hole. The group resumed its chatter as they all followed and climbed out into the corridor. 

“You do look very – erm – nice, Hermione,” Harry said awkwardly to her as they made their way to the Great Hall. “You’ve done something to your hair, right?” 

Hermione smiled ruefully. “Right,” she said. 

The Great Hall was festooned in the usual Halloween decorations, except for the addition of all four house banners hanging from the ceiling, somewhat dominating the floating pumpkins and orange streamers. The four house tables were pushed to the side, leaving a wide expanse of floor in the middle. 

McGonagall started off the proceedings with a speech – about how the war had sowed divisions, how suspicion and distrust had grown where it hadn’t needed to, and that now was a time of peace, a time to reconcile differences, to come together in solidarity, etc, etc… For the duration of the speech. Hermione’s gaze kept drifting over to the drinks that were laid out on the table at the side, eyeing the punch bowls that were for those of age and older. 

As McGonagall finished, there was a smattering of applause throughout the Hall. 

“Shall we get a drink, Ginny?” Hermione asked as the sound of clapping died down. 

“Sure,” Ginny smiled. “So, where did you get the dress?” she asked as they walked over to the punch bowl. “Or have you been hiding it all these years?” 

“Pansy Parkinson leant it to me.” 

“Pansy Parkinson?” Ginny asked in surprise. 

“Yep,” Hermione said, pouring two large glasses of punch. 

“Since when are you and Parkinson swapping clothes?” Ginny’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

“We’re not.” Hermione shrugged. “She just offered to help me with my outfit...she seems pretty harmless…” Although, even as she said it, Hermione still wasn’t completely sure of Pansy’s motive for being so helpful with her Ball outfit...but there was only so much energy Hermione could muster to care. Pansy had made the whole Ball-going process easier, and she was grateful to her for that. 

“She's a funny person to befriend,” Ginny commented. 

“I haven’t really befriended her...anyway, Ginny, we’re at a  _ Reconciliation  _ Ball, maybe we need to  _ reconcile  _ the issues we have with these people.” Again, though, Hermione wasn’t sure she believed what she was saying – she didn’t know whether some things could ever be truly reconciled with those that wore green and silver ties. She took a gulp of her drink, suddenly feeling very thirsty. 

“Hello girls, you’re both looking lovely!” Ginny and Hermione were suddenly joined by Pansy herself , who was accompanied by Blaise Zabini. 

Pansy beamed at Hermione, and made an excited kind of squealing sound. “Oh, you did everything just as I told you! You look fabulous! Doesn't she look fabulous, Blaise?” 

“She looks FABULOUS!” Zabini cried out, far louder than Hermione thought was necessary. She took another long sip of her drink. “As do you, sweetheart.” Zabini winked at Ginny, who gave him a wry smile back. She looked surprisingly at ease in his company, but then they  _ had  _ spent two therapy tasks together. Although, Hermione certainly didn’t feel at ease in Malfoy’s company… Where was he anyway? 

“So, we’re waiting in desperate anticipation for Theo to arrive. He said he was bringing a date but wouldn’t tell us who it is,” Zabini informed them excitedly. 

“And why are they so  _ late? _ ” Pansy whined, just as Harry entered the circle, greeting Zabini and Pansy formally, putting an arm around Ginny’s waist and pulling her to him. There was a possessive edge to the movement that Hermione didn’t miss. 

She used the opportunity to glance surreptitiously around the room, taking another few sips of her drink, and noticed Malfoy standing alone at the side. He was leaning against the wall with a short glass of what looked like firewhiskey in his hand, wearing a crisp white shirt, black suit and black tie. She startled slightly as she noticed that he was staring straight at her with a cold, hard expression. His eyes darted away as soon as her gaze met his. She couldn't help but note how her body responded to him, even seeing him from such a distance. 

“Oh, there he is – Theo! And he’s with – oh!” 

Hermione looked towards the Hall’s entrance, where Nott had just entered, a girl’s hand clasped tightly in his. The girl was wearing a multi-coloured polka-dot dress that splayed out from her waist in a 1950s style, her white-blonde hair cascading about her shoulders in waves. 

“Luna! Luna’s come with Nott!” Ginny exclaimed. 

All about the room, people paused and quieted as they observed the couple’s entrance. Luna looked up at the decorations with characteristic wonder in her eyes, whilst Nott pulled her closer towards him and whispered something in her ear. She responded with a beaming smile and a nod. Hermione noticed that Nott’s tie was somewhat askew and Luna looked rather flushed. They wandered over to where Malfoy was standing at the side, and Hermione saw the latter’s eyes widen in alarm as the couple walked towards him; he pushed himself up from the wall, standing straighter, his body becoming rigid with tension. 

Hermione went to take another sip of her drink but realised, somewhat disappointingly, that her glass was empty. She moved towards the punch bowl again. 

“Woah, Granger, you’re getting into the spirit tonight, aren’t you?” Zabini exclaimed, and Hermione noticed that everyone else’s glasses were still at least half full. 

“Not really. Just a bit thirsty, that's all,” she mumbled. 

“Good for you! She deserves some fun, doesn’t she?” Pansy nudged Ginny’s arm, willing her to agree.

“Of course,” Ginny said defensively. 

“Well! I am going to say hello to my friend’s new sweetheart!” Zabini proclaimed, before spinning on his heels and sauntering over to Nott, Luna and Malfoy. 

“I'm going to need to get the goss’ on this, too,” Pansy said seriously. “See you later.” 

Hermione started on her new drink as Ginny asked her if she wanted to dance. Hermione declined and, after Ginny had cajoled Harry onto the dancefloor, moved over to where Dean was standing. She remembered with a pang of nostalgia how excited she’d been about the Yule Ball; that Hermione felt so different to the person she was now, it was almost painful to think about. She took another large sip of punch to dampen the bitter taste of those memories. 

“Hey Hermione – you know most of the men’s eyes in this room are on you, right?” Dean said conspiratorially after a few minutes of small talk, a knowing smile on his face.

She felt a blush heat her cheeks, and sipped again at her drink to take the edge off the self-consciousness that burgeoned up in her. “I don’t think so,” she remarked dismissively. 

“Yep. I mean, I  _ thought  _ they might have been looking at  _ me  _ at first. But, sadly, I think it’s definitely you. Ernie Macmillan hasn't stopped staring at you,” Dean nodded to his left, to where Hermione presumed Ernie was standing. “Anthony Goldstein can’t seem to stop leering at you. Even Draco Malfoy keeps looking this way.” 

Her heart stuttered at Malfoy’s name, and she suddenly felt her ears burning with the awareness that he might be looking at her. 

“Oh. Well…” Not knowing what else to say, Hermione took another gulp of her drink as Seamus, Neville and Hannah joined them. 

The next few hours went by in a haze of mostly onerous conversation, frequent visits to the punch bowl, and a few moments of drama, one being Anthony Goldstein vomiting in the middle of the Hall – some said he had food poisoning, some said he’d started drinking hours before the start of the Ball. 

Sometime around half eleven, once the pleasant fuzz of alcohol started drifting over her mind and she was feeling more confident and less self-conscious, she finally started dancing, mostly with Pansy. 

The mood in the Hall was more raucous now; most of the students were on the dance floor. Hermione glanced around, looking for a tell-tale shock of blond hair, as she had been doing throughout the evening, and glimpsed Malfoy through the crowd. He was still off to the side, looking as he had done all evening – bored and sullen.

She was twirling around the dancefloor, giggling to herself, when she stumbled slightly, lost her balance and felt someone reach out to steady her. They didn’t quite make it, though, and she found herself falling into the arms of Ernie Macmillan, her hands floundering at his chest and arms to regain her balance. 

“Woah, steady,” Ernie said affectionately, and Hermione found herself grinning up at him as he smiled down at her in ausement. 

“Ernie...you do not look very  _ earnest… _ ” She burst into giggles at her own word play. 

“I’m not often very earnest,” he replied. 

She noticed that he hadn't taken his hand from her arm, but she didn’t actually mind it very much. Not at all in fact. Ernie – a Hufflepuff, which meant he had to be nice, didn’t he? Nice, un-ernest Ernie MacMillan. She then realised that they’d started dancing with each other, a rather inelegant kind of dance, not that it really mattered how they were dancing, and he was asking her some questions – rather innocuous ones about how school was going, about studying, what she thought of Professor Ingleton – then the music changed to something slower and he was putting his arms around her waist, causing her to instinctively reach up and put hers on his shoulders, and then he was leaning down and placing his lips on hers, and Hermione thought she should probably pull away – this wasn’t quite right, was it? But then, hadn’t she been thinking that it might be a good idea to kiss someone else? To try and wash whatever spell Malfoy had cast on her body away? So she reciprocated the kiss... But it felt cold and wet and mechanical and maybe wasn’t what she'd been wanting to do after all, and so she  _ did  _ pull away then, confused and needing air. She hastily gave Ernie an apologetic smile, mumbled something about needing the toilet, turned and hurried through the crowd towards the exit. 

As she did, she glanced around her, her eyes sweeping the room, but it seemed that no one else had really noticed her short embrace with Ernie – they were all caught up in their own dancing or drinking, conversations or kissing. 

All except for one person, standing at the edge of the room, on the periphery of a small group of Slytherins, who was staring straight at her. After a heart-stopping moment, she pulled her gaze from his, trying to keep focused on getting to the great oak doors, as Draco’s Malfoy’s expression burnt itself into her mind. She didn’t think she'd ever forget it – because she’d seen him angry before, but she’d never seen him wear such a look of white hot rage. 

* * *

She hurried out the main doors of the castle, flinching as the chill autumn air hit her skin like an assault. It almost took her breath away, but helped to clear her head and sober her. She wrapped her shawl tightly around her and walked down a gravel path that ran parallel to the castle, seeking out a stone bench to sit on that was near the newly erected statue of Dumbledore. 

She heard footsteps on the gravel behind her – a quick, purposeful stride – and turned, halting abruptly as she saw who’d followed her. Malfoy’s face had not lost its look of rage.

“Are you working your way through the houses, Granger?” he bit out as he neared her, his voice acidic, his mouth twisted up contemptuously. “Got bored of the Gryffindor boys, thought you’d try a snake and now you’re moving on to the fucking  _ badgers _ ?” Malfoy continued his advance, causing her to back away until she came up against a prickly hedge. He stopped only inches from her. 

Anger bubbled up inside her; her right hand instantly went to the hidden pocket of her dress and she pulled out her wand, as the other balled into a fist, her arm tensing, wanting to strike. But she forced herself to stop, and fight him with words instead. “I can kiss who I like! You don’t  _ own  _ me Malfoy! I’m not your possession! We’re not even in any kind of relationship!” 

His gaze flitted across her face, along her neckline; his eyes seemed so glazed with anger, she wasn’t sure if he was even taking her words in. Finally, he met her gaze, his eyes becoming focused once more. 

“What was it like?” he said, his voice low and threatening. She caught the smell of firewhiskey on his breath and noticed how, despite the rigidity of his posture, he swayed slightly. She wondered if he was just as drunk as she was. “What was it like, kissing your fucking Hufflepuff?”

“I…” Her voice faltered, her mind going hazy again, but not from drink this time – from the proximity of him, being so close to his lips again. Even though they were spitting hate at her, she remembered what they could do, how they can make her mind and body feel. She turned away from him, avoiding eye contact, hoping that that might quell the conflicting swell of emotions she was feeling. 

“That wasn’t a rhetorical question,” Malfoy bit out. 

“I...I can’t think when you're this close to me,” was all she could say, but as soon as the words were out her mouth, she knew she’d said too much. It was an admission, an admission of how he could make her feel. 

It didn’t seem to placate him in any way, however. He continued with just as much anger: “Then fucking  _ try  _ ‘cause I’m not moving. What did it feel like, kissing him?” 

“It felt like...nothing. I felt nothing,” She looked him in the eyes then, defiant and unapologetic. Because it was the truth. 

His shoulders sagged slightly, his posture losing its tension, as if her words had brought him a relief of some kind. He leaned towards her, his lips hovering a hairsbreadth from her mouth. “And when I do this….” – he gently, slowly, almost tenderly kissed her – “What does that feel like, Granger?”

“I...it makes me forget.” She managed to gather the words in her scattered mind as he lowered his head, leaning towards her neck. 

“Makes you forget what?” 

His question – the intrusive insistence of it, along with his accumulating berations – lit a dangerous spark inside her. 

Rage rose in her like fiendfyre. 

“You  _ really  _ want me to answer that?” Her voice was hard, causing Malfoy to snap his head up to look at her. 

“Yes,” he said firmly, although there was a hint of uncertainty in his tone. 

Their eyes locked, and she began to speak, her voice steady and deliberate. 

“I forget the pain. Of how my parents don’t know I exist because I obliviated their memory of me. I forget the hunger and the cold – of  _ months _ living in fields and forests.” Her voice was rising with her anger but it was a hard, cold kind of fury. “I forget the  _ relentless _ fear of constantly having to watch our backs for snatchers. I forget seeing my dorm mate of six years have her throat gauged out by Fenrir-fucking-Greyback!”

She’d noticed Malfoy’s expression change in quick succession: from alarm, to surprise, to a guardedness. His arms slackened and he took a step back from her, as if stung. But she didn’t care. The fury was flowing through all of her body now. 

He opened his mouth to speak but she stopped him by slashing her wand through the air in a non-verbal Silencio. There was more she wanted to say – more she  _ needed  _ him to know. And it felt good to voice it all – like cleansing her body of a poisonous, malignant growth. 

“I forget seeing one of the best teachers I ever had dead on the floor of the Great Hall. And another one killed by having a snake eat his fucking  _ face _ off! I forget the image of my best friend's brother getting crushed to death under falling masonry.”

He started backing away from her but she stepped towards him slowly, continuing her monologue in a hard and bitter voice.

“And best of all, I forget lying in the floor of  _ your _ fucking house whilst your  _ aunt _ cut a cursed wound into my arm because she’s got bored of Crucio’ing me!” She was vaguely aware that those were the first words she’d ever managed to say about that day to anyone – about what happened to her. Then laughter bubbled up in her, hard and hysterical. “Which is really quite ironic, don’t you think? That  _ you _ make me forget  _ that _ . I think that’s  _ really _ quite fucked up, don’t you?” 

She waved her arm abruptly, reversing her silencing spell.

“Answer me! That wasn’t a _ rhetorical question _ !” Her last words were mocking and shrill as she echoed his earlier question back to him. 

He’d stopped moving and so she had to stop too, a few inches from him. Despite only coming up to his chin, she felt taller than him now somehow. He was slumped over, his gaze directed somewhere near her feet; he looked defeated, like she’d knocked all the fight out of him. Maybe she had.

“Yeah. It’s – this – is fucked up,” his voice was barely audible and he continued to look at the ground as he spoke. 

A new feeling rose in her: power. She realised her words had made her powerful. 

“That’s what I forget, Malfoy. And how about you? How hard was it for you, sleeping in freshly washed sheets and eating three course meals in this bloody castle?” Even with the anger still bubbling in her veins, she knew she was being unfair. She knew suffering came in many forms, and that the last year at Hogwarts had been no picnic. Not for anyone. But it still felt good to release the words into their air between her and Malfoy – cathartic. “You didn’t even  _ fight _ , except to try and kill me and my friends in that fucking fire.” There was a dulled voice in her mind, saying that wasn’t fair either, because she knew one of his friends died in that fire. But her anger smothered that voice. “So how fucking dare  _ you _ tell  _ me _ who I can and can’t kiss Draco Malfoy!”

She paused, giving him a chance to respond, but he just continued to look down at the gravel between their feet. She suddenly felt very, very tired. The anger was starting to dissipate, and exhaustion was sweeping over her in a wave. 

“You know,” she said more quietly, thoughtfully. Tears she didn't know she’d cried – hot tears of fury – were trickling slowly down her cheeks, and she brushed them away impatiently. “I sometimes wonder whether my blood stains are still there. On the floor of your drawing room.” Her voice turned bitter and caustic again. “I wonder whether you can see them whilst you have your afternoon-fucking- _ tea _ !”

And with that, she spun around, her dress sweeping about her ankles, and stormed away from him, back towards the castle. As she strode down the gravel path, she brushed past someone that had clearly been witness to some, if not all, of their exchange, a frown of concern marring their usually composed exterior. 

She barely looked at Theo Nott as she shoved past him and hurried towards the light of the Entrance Hall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Christmas fluff with this chapter I'm afraid - the angst continues for these two (for now...)!   
> As always, huge, huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazing alphabetas.
> 
> Your thoughts and comments are, as ever, loved!


	16. Playing with Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who've taken the time to give this story a go. Happy New Year and I hope 2021 brings you health and happiness!

_Come down and waste away with me / Down with me / Slow, how you wanted it to be... / ...Breathe out / So I can breathe you in / Hold you in.../ ..._ _The only thing I'll ever ask of you / You've got to promise not to stop when I say when._

\- Everlong, Foo Fighters

* * *

Hermione woke the morning after the Reconciliation Ball with her head pounding in what was becoming an ominously familiar occurrence. She wasn't as hungover as the day after the Lake Party, and didn’t feel nearly as bad as she had on the come down from ecstasis. But her head felt like it was splitting in two and she could feel a nauseous sway of bile in her empty stomach. She’d gone to bed straight after that awful altercation with Malfoy and had downed her sleeping potion just before she’d slipped between her sheets. She was so she had because it meant that she’d managed to get _some_ sleep at least. 

By mid-morning, after she’d forced down some toast, she felt well enough to push herself up from the warm comfort of her bed, get dressed and make her way outside. At lunchtime, she found herself sitting alone in the main courtyard, wrapped tightly in her winter coat, with one of her trademark bluebell fires alight in a jar by her side. 

The first day of November had brought with it bitingly chill winds and black, ominous clouds that were keeping most of her fellow students indoors. But Hermione had wanted to fill her lungs with the brisk, cold air, in the hope that it might banish the rest of her hangover and clear her head. 

She was trying to focus on a particularly complex transfiguration law, which read more like Muggle physics, when she felt her Binding Book warm her right thigh, from where it lay in her pocket. 

With trepidation, she retrieved it and flicked it open. 

_xxx_

_Your third task_

_Your third task is a little different from the previous two, as it doesn’t actually involve you meeting with your partner._

Hermione felt her shoulders slump in relief. 

_It does, however, involve you having to think about your partner in some depth._

Hermione felt her muscles tense again. 

_Please write a letter to your partner, expressing what you wish for them in the future, and possibly, what you wish for your relationship with your partner. You can, of course, include other content and sentiment, but we’d really like it if you could write at least something about your hopes for the future for your partner, and possibly yourself in relation to them._

_You must write this letter on Binding Book paper. This ensures that whatever you write will be the truth._ _The magic that enables your partner to see what you write in the book will be disabled until this task is complete. This is because we understand you may want to write several drafts of the letter before you settle on the final version._

_The d_ _eadline for the task is 9pm on Sunday 15th November._

_Remember, these tasks will work best if we are authentic and true to ourselves!_

_Happy writing!_

_xxx_

Hermione’s lips curled up in a disdainful grimace at the cliched sentiments of the last lines. She snapped the book shut in agitation and shoved it back into her pocket. 

She wouldn't think about what on earth she would write in her letter now – her feelings towards Draco Malfoy were far too unsettled, far too confusing after what had happened last night. 

After ten more minutes of trying to penetrate the logic behind the Transfiguration law, she sensed movement at the front of the school and looked up to see Malfoy and Nott coming out the huge oak doors of the school and into the courtyard. 

She noted uncomfortably how their eyes fell on her, how both their expressions changed as they took her in, before they veered off to the side, coming to a stop against the walls of the castle, where they were somewhat sheltered from the harsh wind. 

Over the following minutes, she kept peeking up from her book, noting how their conversation seemed to get increasingly animated, with Nott gesticulating enthusiastically with his hands. They kept sending furtive looks her way, which made her think, with sickening foreboding, that the subject of their heated discussion was her. 

Then, suddenly, their voices rose into a crescendo, the climax of which was Nott storming away from Malfoy, as the latter shouted after him, “Don’t you fucking _dare_!” 

To Hermione’s alarm, Nott was marching straight towards her, his expression steely. She watched, thinking – hoping – that surely he was going to stride past her. But to her consternation, he stopped just in front of her. 

“Granger,” he greeted formally, a stern edge to his voice. “We need to talk. Come with me. We're going to feed the thestrals.” 

And with that, he strode away from her, in the direction of the hillside and the Forbidden Forest beyond, clearly expecting her to follow. Somewhat stunned, Hermione dared a glance at Malfoy whose angry eyes were flitting between her and Nott’s retreating back, his face contorted in anguish, as if he were fighting an internal dilemma with himself. 

Hermione’s interest had been kindling, and now it sparked alight into a blaze, a burning curiosity she hadn’t felt in weeks, months possibly. What could Nott want to talk about, and why had he been arguing with Malfoy? And she’d always been interested in thestrals, it would be rather fascinating to be near enough to them to feed them. Making up her mind, she stuffed her book into her bag pocket and set off after Nott. 

He was quite a bit taller than her – taller than Malfoy even – so she had to do a kind of half-jog to keep up with his loping strides. 

“We’re going to feed the thestrals?” she asked uncertainly as they made their way down the hillside. 

“Yep.” 

For the whole of the fast-paced walk to the Forbidden Forest – and the detour to Hagrid’s cooling shed to collect the feed – Nott didn’t say another word to her, despite her occasional questions: “Did you want to speak to me about something?”...“Whereabouts is the thestral herd?”... “Is it far?” 

She didn’t push him too much though; she sensed an unpredictable volatility about him that she didn’t want to provoke. 

Finally, they got to a clearing in the forest where Nott stopped and placed down the feed bucket. Hermione spotted an adult and juvenile thestral on the far side of the clearing who slowly started walking over to them. As they did, more magical horses emerged from the trees, no doubt attracted to the smell of raw meat that emanated from the container at their feet. 

Nott reached down and grabbed a bloodied steak, holding it out as the thestrals slowly plodded towards him. 

“Luna first showed you the thestrals, didn’t she?” Hermione asked quietly. 

The lines of Nott’s face softened, and he finally said in a surprisingly gentle voice. “Yes.” Then, after a moment, he spoke again, in a more matter-of-fact tone. “Did you hear about the DADA Boggart lesson last year, Granger?” 

She was taken aback by the randomness of the question.

“No,” she admitted. She was still avoiding hearing too many stories of what had happened in the castle last year. 

Nott gave a curt nod in acknowledgement. “At the beginning of spring term, Amycus Carrow had us all face a Boggart again. I pointed out that Boggarts were OWL level, but he said that ‘our fears change as we grow and it’s always good to keep practicing’. As it turned out, the purpose of the exercise was for Carrow to record every students’ individual fear. Because they were implementing a new punishment: students were to be locked in a dungeon with their _actual_ worst fear...for as long as the Carrows deemed necessary.” 

A wash of terror rolled over Hermione. “But what if – what if it was impossible for them to recreate the fear? Like, if it were heights, or something metaphysical like – like loneliness?” _Or failure_ , she finished silently to herself. 

“Then they _did_ make do with a Boggart. But anyway, my point is that when Draco faced his Boggart, it took the form of two coffins – adult sized – with Dumbledore standing in between them saying sadly, ‘This is your fault boy, isn't it? Remember, it is our choices that define us, not our abilities...I knew a boy once who made all the wrong choices...’.” 

“Right…” Hermione said, unsettled by the image of Draco’s Boggart, and uncertain where the conversation was going. 

“The coffins housed the dead bodies of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, Granger.” Nott threw a piece of meat at a nearby thestral and turned to her. 

“So his worst fear was his parents dying?” 

“No. His worst fear was them dying and him being _responsible_ for their deaths.” 

“Oh,” Hermione let this information drift around his mind, waiting for it to settle, but for some reason it wouldn’t. “Why – why would he have feared that?” 

Nott raised his eyebrows, as if surprised – or unimpressed – that she didn’t know the answer to the question already, before turning back to the winged horses. “Because, since Voldemort had risen again in the Little Hangleton graveyard the year we turned fifteen, there had been many occasions when Draco’s parents’ lives were threatened if Draco didn’t do or say certain things...taking the Dark Mark being one of them.” 

Again, Hermione let this information flutter around her mind, remaining silent as it did so. 

“Food for thought, Granger?” 

“Yes,” she admitted. Her curiosity that had been sparked back in the courtyard had been fuelled by what Nott had told her. She had so many questions, she wasn’t sure where to begin, which meant that her next question took even her by surprise. 

“What was your Boggart?” 

There was pause, before Nott bit out gruffly, “My father. But my father alive and well.”

“The thing you feared most in the world was your own father?” Hermione asked, not being able to hide the incredulity from her voice. She found the concept hard to conceive – she loved her own father deeply; her parents were where she sought – where she _had_ sought safety – she couldn't imagine them being the _source_ of fear. 

Nott gave a short nod. 

“Yep. I never believed any of it, you know. All the pureblood supremacy bullshit.” He glanced at Hermione out the corner of his eyes, but then his gaze returned to the thestrals. “A lot of it never really made sense to me. And then, the summer after our fourth year, I snuck into my father’s study and unearthed the old papers of my grandfather, Cantankerous Nott,” Hermione knew the name – the man had drawn up the list of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. “I went through his old research papers, and could see how he’d twisted the facts – twisted them and moulded them to fit his own, bigoted narrative.

“That’s when the ideology I'd grown up being told to believe _totally_ fell apart. Like the waves crashing over a castle made of sand. If you go back far enough, you’ll find Muggles in nearly every wizarding family of the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight. Essentially, the concept of pureblooded-ness is itself a lie, fed by intolerance and prejudice. 

“But Merlin knew what would have happened to me if I'd voiced any of that. For a long time, I had to pretend. Laughed along with Draco when he called you a mudblood.” Nott turned to look directly at Hermione again. “I’m sorry I did that.” His voice was grave and his eyes sincere. 

For some reason, maybe due to the raw genuineness of the sentiment, she found she was able to accept the apology. “That’s okay...you really never believed any of it?” 

Nott shook his head. “But it was easy for me not to believe it. My father never gave me any reason to respect him.” His voice went quiet. “He gave me a lot of reasons to _fear_ him but not to _love_ him, you see. Hence, it was easier to reject my father’s beliefs. Unlike Draco.” 

Hermione’s nerves prickled uncomfortably at the mention of Malfoy again. “What do you mean?” 

Nott took a deep breath, as if he were about to start a difficult lecture, and threw some meat at the feet of a particularly ugly looking thestral. “What do you know about the Malfoy family, Granger?” 

Hermione shrugged, and attempted to summarise what she knew. “Death Eaters. Or ex-Death Eaters,” she corrected herself. “Father in Azkaban, mother and son currently have sentences with conditions. Big fuck-off house in Wiltshire.” She said the words mechanically, refusing to actually think about Malfoy Manor in any detail. “Wealthy, ancient wizarding family… Do I pass?” 

Nott gave a barely-there smile in acknowledgement. 

“You know. They have their faults, the Malfoys. Like my father, they made a lot of the wrong choices. But they have something my father never had: the capacity to love. Say what you want about them, they always look out for their own.” 

Nott looked at Hermione again then, his eyes penetrating, as if what he was about to impart was the crux of the whole conversation. A shiver tingled at her spine. “But it’s a unique kind of love. Some say it’s something that runs in the Malfoy blood. They’re selective with their love, but once their heart has invited someone in, whether willingly or not, their love is unconditional, and incredibly powerful. Like Fiendfyre, it will burn bright and everlasting, and will want to destroy anything that gets in its way. 

“Why do you think Narcissa Malfoy lied to Voldemort about Potter being dead the night of the Battle? It wasn’t because she wanted to save Potter, or for Voldemort to meet his downfall. She did it for Draco - she was desperate to know if he was still alive. She would have done _whatever_ it took to save Draco.” 

“That’s not so hard to believe. A mother’s love for her son – Harry's mother died for him. Is that so unique?” Hermione protested, although her voice was weak. 

Nott held out the last piece of feed at one of the smaller thestrals that seemed to have missed out on most of the communal meal, before continuing. 

“My point is that, once someone manages to make their way into their heart, a Malfoy will accept and protect that person unconditionally. Some might say possessively and obsessively.”

“Lots of long words Nott, but why are you telling me this?” Hermione asked, frustration growing in her. 

Nott gave her an assessing look. 

“Because it can be dangerous for the recipient if they unwittingly ignite that love without knowing what they're doing.” 

“Like Crabbe with the Fiendfyre last year?” Hermione couldn’t help extending the metaphor. “Riiiiight. I'm still not getting why you’re telling me this. So Malfoy’s future girlfriends and potential wife are going to be smothered with his powerful love. Good. Great. Bully for them.” 

Nott looked askance at her again, frowning slightly, as if he wasn’t sure if she were being deliberately obtuse. 

“Brightest witch of her age but you can't see it, can you?” 

Her thoughts slipped and slid together in her mind, trying to form a picture that made sense. She caught hold to something, but it seemed implausible. Ridiculous. “You're not saying that this love that Malfoy might hold is directed at _me_ ?” She barked out an incredulous laugh. “Malfoy _hates_ me, Nott. That’s the opposite of love.” 

“The opposite of love is _indifference_ , Granger. And Draco being indifferent to you was definitely _not_ what I saw last night.” 

As Hermione’s mind reeled in protest at Nott’s words, and what they could mean, he bent down and picked up the now empty bucket. He took a few steps out of the clearing, but before he reached the trees, he stopped and turned back to her. 

“I said that kind of love can be dangerous for the recipient. It can also be painful for the bearer if misguided, misdirected or not reciprocated. And although I know you can't see it, Draco's had his fair share of pain already. So just watch what fires you're playing with, Granger. Even with your acclaimed talent, I'm not sure you'll be able to put out the flames.” 

* * *

Draco waited – or rather procrastinated – a whole two weeks, right until the evening of the deadline, before he attempted to face the epitome of bullshit that was his bollocksy third therapy task. 

Two weeks in which he avoided Granger – avoided even meeting her eyes. Two weeks in which he interrogated Theo about what he’d talked to Granger about in the Forbidden Forest, and in which Theo vaguely replied something about ‘warning her to be careful’ and ‘to watch out that she didn’t hurt him’. 

_Hurt_ him, for fuck’s sake, as if she could do that, as if he fucking _cared_ about what she did. 

And anyway, it was obvious that Granger still despised the living shit out of him. That had been evident from her great soliloquy the night of the Ball. 

In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have suggested the salsa dancing. But dancing in such a way was one of the few times he felt more himself, when his cold exterior managed to melt away a little bit. And he thought that might have been good for them, he thought that that was in the spirit of this stupid therapy-matching-tasks. He hadn’t predicted that his reserve would melt away _that_ much… He’d managed to dance it countless times before without becoming so...intimate with his partners. 

But anyway, he really needed to get this letter written – the deadline was in a few hours time, and he had Quidditch practice in half an hour. He himself hadn’t received a letter from Granger. He supposed that maybe she was doing the same thing as him and holding out until the last minute. He still couldn’t help hoping that maybe she’d dropped out of the task, but he’d heard nothing from Alethea and so had to assume the repulsive, dire thing was still continuing. 

“What the fuck is wrong with this quill?” Draco exclaimed in frustration, as yet another attempt at the penning the letter resulted in his writing disappearing as soon as the ink touched the page. 

Blaise, the only other person in their dorm, looked up at him with an expression of benign curiosity on his face. 

“Remember, you have to write the truth or else the ink doesn’t stick.” 

“I _am_ writing the fucking truth,” Draco grumbled, and proceeded to attempt what was probably his tenth try at the stupid missive. 

_Dear Hermione,_

Urgh. No, that wasn’t right. He ripped out the page and angrily scrunched it into a ball, throwing it as far away from him as possible. 

_Dear Granger,_

Urgh. No, that wasn’t right either. He scribbled out the words so fiercely the page tore. 

_Granger_ ,

There. Right. Okay. That was better. Now, what did he ‘wish’ regarding him and the crazy-haired irritating-as-fuck know-it-all? 

_I wish this year at Hogwarts goes by as fast as possible so we never have to see each other ever again._

Draco watched with burgeoning irritation and incredulity as the words disappeared in front of him. 

“How the _fuck_ is that a lie?” Draco exclaimed, launching his Binding Book across the room. It clattered against the wooden mantelpiece and landed on the floor with a loud thump. 

Blaise looked up once more, raising his eyes with a little more alarm on his face this time. “Writer's block is the worst,” he said knowingly, as if he were a wizened novelist. “Maybe write _anything_ at first. Close your eyes, zone into Granger and all you think and feel about her” – Blaise closed his own eyes in demonstration and sat cross-legged, his hands resting palm-up on his knees, looking like some kind of absurd Buddhist guru – “and then just write anything that comes into your head. You don’t have to actually send that version. It’s just to get you over the hump, give you something to work with.” 

Draco, at a loss for what else to do, decided to try what Blaise had advised. He closed his eyes and forced Blaise, the dorm, even the stupid task at hand, out of his mind and, much to his reluctance, focused on Hermione Granger.

A jumble of memories and emotions ricocheted around his mind: her irritating know-it-all voice when she’d corrected him countless times during their lessons in their earlier years...the first time he’d called her ‘mudblood’ and the way her face had crumpled as she’d turned away from him to hide her tears...how he’d kept doing it regardless, and how his friends had joined in...how he’d moaned about her to Pansy to such an extent that his girlfriend had snapped one day and retorted, ‘You seem to spend more time thinking about Hermione Granger than _me!’..._ How the spark in her eyes had dulled to nothing...except for when he goaded her, except for when he kissed her and touched her...the way their bodies felt like they’d fitted together when they’d danced...the feel of her lips and her skin –

He opened his eyes and, without thinking about what he was doing, scribbled into his Binding Book. The words flowed from him – he couldn’t have stopped them if he’d wanted to. He wasn’t even quite conscious of what he was writing, as if he was being controlled by some strange kind of Imperious Curse. 

When he finished, he stared in surprise at what he’d written. 

He was even more amazed at the fact that the ink stayed, determined and resolute, bold and dark on the page: 

_Granger,_

_I’ll tell you what I fucking want._

_I want to kiss your mouth until your lips are bruised and swollen._

_I want to see how wet and dripping your cunt can get. Then I want to taste it. To lick it. To suck it._

_I want you helpless and wanton under me whilst I fuck your prissy little cunt until you can't walk._

_I want to see you shuddering and shaking when I make you come so hard you forget your own name._

_And all the while, I want to hear you whimper and moan and gasp out_ my _name, begging for more._

_Because you will want more._

_But the worst thing is that I hate myself for wanting any of this at all._

_Malfoy._

For a moment, he felt a stillness and calm descend over him, as if getting the words out of his mind and onto the page had been like some kind of release – a catharsis. 

Then he barked out an incredulous laugh at the thought of sending _this_ letter to Granger. He grasped the page he’d written on and ripped it violently out of his notebook. He was about to scrunch it up and Incendio it to ashes, but something stopped him. There was something about the rawness of the words – okay, maybe there was something about the raw _honesty_ of them – that meant he didn’t want to destroy them. Not just yet, anyway. So he waved the page gently in the air to dry the ink, folded it neatly and put it on his bedside table along with an assortment of other torn and scrunched up pages from his Book. 

Fortunately, more words were flowing from him, so he retrieved his quill and kept writing before they disappeared from his mind: 

_Granger,_

_You asked me whether there’s still blood stains on the floor of my drawing room. No, there aren’t_ – _despite the fact that there was so much blood spilt in that room, Granger. I had to kneel in front of him once and I remember it seeping through the knee of my trousers, sticky and luke-warm, because it was still bleeding from a body lying a few feet away._

_None of that blood stains my floor anymore but that doesn’t mean I don’t remember the things that happened there._

_So, what do I want for you? Here are a few things..._

The words spilled from him again, but they were very different words this time, with a different sentiment. 

When he finally finished his second version of the letter, he felt a strange kind of exhaustion, as if he’d reached inside himself, grabbed hold of his soul and twisted it into letters and words on the page. 

He read over it, replaced some words with others, scribbled out whole phrases and re-arranged sentences until he finally felt happy with it. Well, as happy as he was probably ever going to be. And the Book seemed to be happy too because the words stayed on the page, seemingly prevailing and enduring, declaring their truthfulness. 

Again, he ripped the page out, albeit more gently this time, and waved it lightly in the air before folding it in half, thinking of whether to send it in an envelope or roll it into a scroll and seal it. But before he could decide, Pucey burst into the dorm. 

“Guys! I’ve just heard the Gryffindors are planning a practice session again this evening. Like – _now!_ Say they’ve already booked the pitch – but I swear _I_ did! We have to go now, or else those little fuckers are going to get there before us! They _keep_ stealing our practice time this term – I feel as if they’re doing it on purpose!”

The thought of their practice session getting hijacked by the Gryffindors yet again spurred Draco into action. He folded the letter in half and cast it onto his bedside table before jumping up from his bed and hurriedly pulling on his Quidditch gear. He’d get the letter to Granger after practice – there would still be time. 

The practice session was a joke. The new team was still trying to work out how they played together, and the new beater and chaser just seemed to be at constant war with one another. When he returned from practice, Draco was so full of frustration, his mind full of ruminations about the weak coaching they were getting and the petty disagreements, that he forgot about the stupid letter task until after he’d finished an extra long shower and saw the folded letter on his bedside table. 

His head snapped to the clock in alarm. The minute hand was at ten minutes to nine. 

Fuck. Buggery fuckery fuckity fuck. 

He really didn't want to miss the deadline for this task; he didn’t want to give Alethea any reason to be critical of him in her end of term letter to the Wizengamot. 

He still hadn’t received a letter from Granger, though...but that was different – it was different for her. He grabbed the folded letter, shoved it into a nearby envelope and burst out into the common room with just a towel around his waist. Even in his panicked state, he still retained enough self-possession to know that he could not go hurtling through the halls of Hogwarts looking for Granger like that. Blaise was still in the shower himself and Theo was nowhere to be seen – probably somewhere with Lovegood, no doubt. 

His eyes alighted on a first year, who was sitting at a nearby table scowling down at the pages of _Potions for Beginners._

“Hey – you,” Draco called to him authoritatively. 

The boy looked up, “Yeah?” 

“What’s your name?” 

“Selwyn. Eddie Selwyn.” 

“D’you know who Hermione Granger is?” 

Eddie sneered. He was in the right house, it seemed. “‘Course I know who Hermione Granger is.” 

Draco approached him. “Good. Because I want you to find her as quickly as possible – before nine o’clock – and give her this. Try the library first, and if she’s not there then Gryffindor Tower. And if she’s not _there_ then search this castle until you find her, understand?” Draco held out the letter as Eddie rose to his feet 

“And what do I get in return?” Eddie said, taking the envelope from him and eyeing it curiously. 

Draco gave him an assessing look. Yes, he was definitely in the right house. 

“I’ll give you fifty sickles if you get it to her before nine.” 

Eddie looked disdainful. “I don’t need your sickles.” 

Draco remembered the boy's surname – Selwyn – and realised that he probably didn’t. 

“Fine. Then I'll do whatever Potions homework you seem to be struggling with.” 

Eddie smiled slyly. “Deal.” 

“And don't you dare open it. You won’t be able to read it anyway – it’ll just look like a black page to you. Now hurry the fuck up. You’ve got eight minutes left.” 

The boy gave him a mock salute before hurrying from the room. With his heart rate slowing down in relief, Draco turned and walked back into his dorm. 

It was a good twenty minutes later, after Draco had got dressed, and Eddie had reported back that he’d delivered the letter to Granger in the library, had even watched her open it, that Draco started to clear up the numerous bits of parchment that were the aftermath of his letter writing task. In doing so, he spotted another neatly folded page from his Binding Booking lying innocently on his bedside table. 

His heart thumped in his chest as he realised what the folded page could possibly be. He abruptly reached for it, opening the paper so harshly it nearly tore in half. 

No. _NO_. 

His eyes skipped erratically over the words written there: 

_Granger,_

_You asked me whether there’s still blood stains on the floor of my drawing room. No, there aren’t_ – _despite the fact that there was so much blood spilt in that room, Granger..._

He grappled around his bed, _pleading_ to God for his hand to alighten on another folded piece of paper from his Binding Book. But there was nothing. 

No, no, no, NO, _NO_. 

Because the letter in his hand now was the letter that had _meant_ to be in the envelope that Eddie had taken, the envelope that Granger had now received. And if this letter was _not_ in that envelope, that meant that the _other_ letter - the explicit, _obscene-_ to-the-point-of-fucking-illegal letter _had_ been in the envelope. 

Draco’s knees suddenly felt like water. His legs buckled under him and he slumped onto his bed. 

He sat, frozen in shock, wondering how long it would take for Granger to report him for sexual harassment and for the Aurors to come to take him away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Ian McEwan and his novel, also called ‘Atonement’, from which I stole the ‘sending the wrong letter’ idea! I recommend the film and the book! 
> 
> As always, huge, huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazing alphabetas.
> 
> Your thoughts and comments are, as ever, loved!


	17. The Letter

_ Bend me, break me / Anyway you need me / All I want is you / Bend me, break me / Breaking down is easy / All I want is you / Steal me, deal me, anyway you heal me / Love me, like me, come ahead and fight me / ...I think I'm paranoid / And complicated.  _

\- I Think I’m Paranoid, Garbage

* * *

Draco waited. 

He waited for the Aurors to burst into his dorm in the middle of the night and haul him away. 

He waited to be ordered to McGonagall’s office – for his own obscene words to be waved in front of his face and to be demanded an explanation for his perversity, for his  _ harassment  _ of Hermione Granger. 

He waited for the rumours to start and for the Gryffindor boys to happen upon him when he was walking alone through the halls, or maybe in the boy’s toilets, and send a myriad of hexes and curses his way in defence of the Golden Girl of Gryffindor Tower. 

But a week went by after sending the letter-that-had-not-meant-to-be-sent and nothing happened. He questioned Eddie Selwyn repeatedly about it: had he actually  _ given  _ the letter to Granger? Was he sure it had been Granger, and not another wild-haired Gryffindor? 

In fact, he badgered Eddie so much that the boy had asked Draco to perform Legilimency on him, just to stop Draco bothering him. And so Draco had. He saw Eddie pass Granger the letter where she sat at a table in the library. Saw her look uncertainly at the envelope before cautiously opening it. Saw her lips part slightly, eyes widen and cheeks flush a bright red – in anger, no doubt – as she read it. Saw her take two, three, purposeful deep breaths before grabbing her books and parchment with shaking hands and hurrying from the library. 

Witnessing Eddie’s memories scourged any doubt from Draco’s mind that Granger had, indeed, read the letter. And it made him feel infinitely worse. 

Draco contemplated telling Theo and maybe even Blaise about it all, but he was reluctant to admit he’d so right-royally fucked up. ‘Don’t make yourself vulnerable to others by admitting your faults’, his mother had often said. His friends had a vague idea that something was happening between him and Granger – Theo especially – but the letter was a whole other thing.

He still hadn’t received a letter from Granger. But then, the task couldn’t still be going ahead, surely. The whole thing would be fucked now – there was no way that they would carry on with the intervention. Which meant that at least one good thing would come from all this. 

But then, if that was the case, why had nothing happened yet? What in Merlin’s name was going on? He watched Granger – across the Great Hall and classrooms, as they passed in the corridors – to try and gauge some understanding from the look on her face. He summoned his courage and even tried to approach her on occasion, but she always avoided his gaze, always stopped when she saw him coming and walked the other way. 

It crossed his mind that she might be frightened of him, but he quickly dismissed that thought; she’d said right at the beginning of term that she wasn’t scared of him and he was certain that was still the case.

He hadn’t had a session with Alethea since Granger had got his letter...if Alethea knew about it, she would be sure to write it in her end of term report to the Wizengamot. Even though she seemed like the kind of person that would talk it through with him first, Draco couldn’t be sure. ‘Don’t rely on anybody else’s good will’, his father had always used to say, ‘always expect the worst from people.’ 

Maybe Alethea and the Wizengamot were going to catch him unawares so that he, his family and their lawyers didn’t have the chance to get a defence together. His trial in the summer had been one-sided enough, it was unlikely this would be much different. But surely he had a right to know if his own words would be used against him?

If she  _ did  _ know, Alethea was bound to have written it in his notes, along with a draft of his report. And if he knew what she’d written, that meant he could be prepared.

After a week of stewing on all manner of scenarios, Draco's paranoia had reached what even he knew was irrational levels. But he seemed powerless to wind it back onto a more sane level. 

Which is why he found himself, on the Sunday night a week after the letter fiasco had happened, sneaking through the halls of Hogwarts at two in the morning on his way to Alethea’s office. 

He reached the door and was surprised by the ease at which he was able to unlock it – it only needed a few more complex Alohomora-type spells. The filing cabinets at the back of the room were a little harder to open, but after five minutes of various combinations of unlocking and revealing spells, the cabinet drawer labelled ‘ _ G - M’ _ flung open. 

His heart felt like it was going to burst from his chest as he started rifling through the bulging files until he finally came to one labelled  _ MALFOY, Draco.  _ His hands shook as he yanked it open. This was surely an expulsion offense, which was quite ironic really considering concern about potentially being expelled – or worse – was the very reason he was there. 

He flicked to the last page of notes and scanned Alethea’s handwriting. It was just a summary of their last session. He flicked back a few pages, but again all he read were just notes of his previous appointments. Nothing about sexual deviancy, unsolicited attention, or sexual obsession: 

_ Experiencing some identity issues: due to the experiences that have been forced on him, D has a strong belief that there is something ‘wrong’ with him with regards to being ‘dark, evil and power seeking.’ ... (Does he know  _ how  _ to be different?) _

_ This has led to a strong sense of self-dislike, where his self image is quite far removed from the person he’d like to be. Typically, this can lead to low self esteem...  _

_ The above is compounded by his belief system being powerfully shaken...he shared with me that he no longer believes many of the pureblood supremacist ideas he has grown up with… having your belief system questioned to such an extent can leave one with a fragile sense of self...  _

_...continuing exposure to Astronomy Tower...after some initial hiccups, Draco is doing well with this...  _

_...some friends, although his peer relationships have changed in the last one to two years...  _

_...attachment? Mother - fairly secure attachment, although some cold and detached parenting. Father - possibly insecure attachment - harsh and critical parenting style...  _

Other correspondence to the Wizengamot was there, including copies of his court report. But no draft of the end of term report. Draco paused, thinking. It seemed Alethea didn’t know about his letter, that Granger hadn’t told her. And if Alethea didn't know, had Granger told  _ anyone _ ? It hadn’t occurred to Draco until now that she would keep totally quiet about it...

Suddenly, Draco heard the dull clicking of slow footsteps in the corridor outside. His heart jumped to his throat and he froze. The footsteps were quiet, but they were definitely getting closer. 

He hurriedly rifled through the drawer again, trying to find the right place to put the notes back. As he did, the other files gaped open and he caught glimpses of phrases and words – small snippets of others’ misery and pain: ... _ saw three friends die during Battle...captured by snatchers, kept in incarcerous for five days...still unable to share what they were forced to do under the Imperius Curse… _

Draco purposely tried not to read them; he did not want to know who these snapshots of suffering belonged to – he did not  _ deserve  _ to know that – but then his own name caught his eye:  _ Malfoy _ . 

He tensed again, as the footsteps outside reached a crescendo….and released a breath as they carried on in the same steady pace past the door, and down the corridor. 

After an agonising minute-long debate in his mind, he pulled the other file from the cabinet. He would only read the passage containing his name – he had a right to read it if it was about him, didn’t he? That was all he was going to do, he promised himself. 

But when he read the passage, he realised it wasn’t actually about him, but about his home: 

_ She is still avoidant of talking about the events that happened at Malfoy Manor in April 1998 in detail...both overt and covert avoidance. However, we have started to talk about  _ talking  _ about it. Hermione has acknowledged that these memories are probably the most traumatic for her… _

Draco stared down at the parchment in his hand, reading and re-reading the statement, a dull mix of guilt and regret and fear coiling inside him. He knew he should put the file back in the cabinet, where it belonged, but he found himself leafing through Hermione Granger’s file, his eyes skimming a few phrases here and there, not quite daring to read anything in depth: 

_...trauma - mostly manifesting in dissociation/derealisation. ‘Numb’, ‘flat’ mood..  _

_...experienced approx. ten terror-turns May - June 1998. Has felt highly anxious on occasion since then but mostly dissociative-type state... _

_...survivor guilt…. _

_...high sense of responsibility, esp. for others’ welfare and safety….high compassion for others and ability to empathise (e.g. S.P.E.W., overachiever/perfectionist). These are all risk factors for compassion fatigue/emotional burnout….  _

_...ruptured attachment > parents - memories? Most protective factor/source of coping not available... _

Finally, what moral conscience Draco  _ did  _ have fought through to his frontal lobes and he snapped the file shut and shoved it back into the cabinet, along with his own. Ensuring they were in the right place, he carefully closed the drawer, checked to make sure everything was as he’d found it, and quietly left the room. 

Draco barely slept that night. His head pounded with one of his migraines – the kind that was accompanied by nausea, and those were the worst kind. The notes from Granger's file kept drifting around his mind’s eye, over and over, until he’d practically memorised the few snippets he’d read. He didn’t need his alarm to go off the next morning, because he was already awake. In fact, he didn’t think he’d actually properly fallen asleep at all. 

* * *

The next afternoon, typeface appeared in his Binding Book: _ Hermione Granger has been granted an extension for the third task.  _

Draco stared at the print, trying to make sense of what it meant. If she had an extension, then that meant the project was still continuing….which confirmed what he’d found out the night before: that Granger might not have actually told anyone after all. 

Maybe she was playing with him. Keeping hold of it for leverage. But no, as he’d thought before, about the kiss at the Lake, blackmail didn’t seem to be Granger’s style... 

Fuck. He didn’t know anymore. And not knowing was fucking painful. Because, as his father had often said, ‘knowledge is power’. 

* * *

It was another long, agonising week until Draco heard from Granger again. A week when his Binding Book remained quiet, except for a message stating that there would not be any more tasks until after the Christmas holidays, which was some good news at least. 

Then, one Friday afternoon, when they were having the first snowfall of winter, Draco’s Book warmed his leg, from where it nestled in his pocket. 

He retrieved it and hurriedly flicked it open: 

_ HG: I think we should meet? Maybe later this evening?  _

_ DM: Okay.  _

_ HG: In the usual place?  _

_ DM: Fine. 7pm?  _

_ HG: Okay.  _

He had no idea what to expect; he felt totally in the dark about what Granger was thinking or feeling. So, on the one hand, he was eager to see her, to get the meeting over with, because maybe he’d get some answers. But, on the other hand, he was fucking dreading it. 

He arrived at the old Divination room at exactly seven o’clock, his hands shoved into his pockets, his senses sharp and his defences up. She was leaning against the wall and was still wearing her school uniform. Her hair had that tired look it did at the end of the day, like it had fought many battles and lost. Her tie was askew and she had a ladder in her tights, just over her knee and stretching to her left thigh, a hole gaping at its top. Despite himself and the situation he was in, Draco had an inexplicable urge to reach down and touch the skin he could see revealed amongst the black nylon. 

She stared at him as he walked in with uncompromising, almost unblinking eyes. Followed his path as he shuffled across the room to stand a couple of metres from her. 

His eyes flitted across her face, trying to gauge anything from her expression, but there was nothing. Except maybe a slight wariness about her eyes. His eyes finally locked with hers, and he refused to look away or be cowed, despite the knowledge of the words he’d written hanging in the air between them, despite the shame and regret and embarrassment that leached from those words. 

“I got your letter,” she stated, somewhat unnecessarily. He immediately tried to read her voice, but her tone was as lifeless as usual, except for maybe a hint of accusation in it. 

“I – that wasn't the letter I meant to send. It got muddled –” He faltered, hating the hesitancy he could hear in his own voice. He knew that if there was ever a time to apologise it was now. But again, he’d never been taught how to apologise – ‘apologising means admitting your faults, which means exposing your weakness’, his father had always said – and so an explanation of sorts seemed to be the best he could muster. “I wrote another one – one that wasn’t – one that was more – formal. The one you got, it wasn't meant to be read –” 

He had thought about sending her the other letter as well, but it seemed obsolete now, redundant. He’d hidden it away under a stack of old parchment in his desk drawer. 

“Did you mean it?” Her voice was calm but there was a firmness to it too, a kind of challenge. 

“What?” 

“What you wrote that wasn't meant to be read? Did you mean it?” Her voice grew in conviction as she spoke.

“I had to mean it,” he replied softly. 

He was more confused than ever about where this was going. She didn’t seem angry, but then she clearly wasn’t happy either. Well, she was never happy anymore. And with that thought, the words from Alethea’s notes came back to his mind, but he pushed them away because they were far too confusing to think about right then. He needed his head to remain clear, because Granger clearly had the upper hand in the situation, had the power, and being on the back foot was not a place Draco had ever been comfortable being in. 

Her hand moved towards her pocket and Draco watched as she took out a worn, folded piece of parchment and held it out to him. 

“Read it.” Her voice had a steely calm about it; the statement was a command, not a request. 

Draco took the parchment and carefully unfolded it. He saw his own handwriting and instantly recognised it as his letter. The paper was worn thin at the edges and was almost coming apart at the folds, as if it had been opened, read and folded up countless times. Which was odd – he thought she would have Reducto’ed or Incendio’ed it straight away. Either that, or kept it as pristine evidence for what a pervert he was and how he needed to get carted off to Azkaban A.S.A.P.

He looked up at her, allowing his confusion to show on his face. 

“Read it,” Granger repeated. “Out loud.” 

He hesitated. Was this some kind of punishment? An exercise in humiliation? He wondered why she hadn’t got an audience together if so. But fine. He was a Malfoy – he could play this. He’d own it; his mother has often talked to him about how, ‘if one acted as if one had the upper hand in the situation, other people will believe it.’ He lifted the parchment closer to him and as he did so smelt a musky, oddly familiar scent emitting from it. 

“Granger…I’ll tell you what I fucking want,” he read in a bored, resigned tone, as if the words weren’t his, as if he were reading a particularly dry passage from a History of Magic textbook. It was a feeble attempt to distance himself from the raw passion of the sentiments he’d penned. “I want to kiss you until your lips are bruised and swollen.” 

He couldn’t help but pause before continuing. He kept his head bowed over the parchment but darted his eyes up to watch her. He noticed that a flush had come to her cheeks, and that her arms had gone tense at her side. But it wasn’t in anger – he'd seen Granger angry enough times and that wasn’t it.

He flicked his eyes back down to his Merlin-awful letter again. 

“I want to see how wet and dripping your cunt can get,” he continued quietly. 

but as he spoke the words out loud, he couldn’t help imagine what he was describing, and was both dismayed and exasperated at the feel of his cock twitching. “I want to taste it. To lick it. To suck it.” His voice was becoming oddly husky and he wondered when his mouth had become so dry. 

Then he heard it – a quiet but unmistakable sharp intake of breath. His eyes snapped up to Granger again. He studied her intently. Her cheeks had reddened even more, her lips had parted slightly, her hands had balled into tight fists. An idea – preposterous, ludicrous but ever-so tantalising – sprung to his mind. Could it – could she? He dared to hope – the worn parchment, the musky scent, the fact she hadn’t told anyone about the letter – he fitted the pieces together in his mind…

“How many times have you read this?” he asked softly, taking slow steps towards her. He heard her breathing quicken, could see her chest rising and falling rapidly. 

“A few.” Her reply was one of mumbled reluctance. 

He stopped so he was only inches from her. Fuck, he loved being this close to her, seeing the way the individual curls of her hair fell, breathing in her scent – the scent of rose, and something else floral, possibly lavender. When he was this close to her, he could see things that no one else could see, and it felt like a delicious, seductive privilege to be able to do that. 

He leaned forward so his mouth was hovering inches from her ear. 

“How. Many.  _ Times _ ?” His voice came out a hiss, because he was getting inpatient – with not knowing, with wanting what he suspected to be confirmed. 

“I – I can't remember.”

He felt his body still, because the words, although vague, were an admission of sorts. 

“You've read it so many times you can't remember?” he persisted. 

She moved her head slightly back so she could look him in the eyes. She looked defiant but guarded, and he realised that that look was all the confirmation he was going to get. 

He leant forward, nipped her hard at her earlobe and was delighted when he heard her let out an involuntary whimper. 

“How did it make you feel, Granger? This letter?” 

“I –” but she faltered as soon as she started speaking, which caused an unwarranted impatience to rise up in him, prompting his next words to spill from him: 

“Granger. Why does this letter smell of  _ cunt _ ?” 

She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut and let out a small, strangled noise. He wasn’t sure if it was one of protest or desire. Maybe both. 

“Did reading his letter make you wet, Granger?” He knew he was being unrelenting with his words, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself and she wasn’t giving him any reason to do so. If anything, it was quite the opposite.

“Yes.” The word was breathed out on an exhale. 

“Did you touch yourself when you read this letter?” He kept his mouth close to her ear, sometimes moving it down to her neck, resisting the temptation to gently graze her soft skin with his teeth. 

“Yes.” 

“When you read this letter so many times you can't remember?” 

“Yes.” 

An involuntary, stifled groan escaped him at the thought of Granger becoming undone again and again at the words he'd written. He placed a barely-there kiss onto the curve of her neck.

He’d sensed a shift in power over the last few minutes – sensed the tables turning and that he now somehow had the upper hand over this whole exchange.

She turned her head the few short inches towards him, and he couldn’t help but kiss her then, hard and bruising, biting gently on her lower lip. A delightful shudder rocketed through him as he heard – felt – her moan into the kiss, which caused him to pause, to slow down slightly. He desperately wanted to be slow with her – to be tender. But he knew her well enough by now – at least, he knew her  _ body  _ – and he knew that she didn’t want tender. She wanted roughness and commands, and obscene words hissed into her ear. And he was desperate to give her what she wanted because an awful feeling had started to kindle in him, a feeling of fear – fear that she would reject him. 

The kiss deepened, their mutual desire and hunger evident in how their lips and tongues moved against each other’s. Her warm hands stroked down his chest, until one settled on his abdomen, the other moving lower. But he feared he would lose control completely if she did that, so he grabbed hold of her waist and spun her around, placing her hands firmly on the wall in front of her. 

“Don’t move them,” he commanded, and she let out a moan in acknowledgement. 

Her grabbed hold of either side of her waist and yanked her pelvis towards him. He leant down stroked a hand up her right thigh, under her skirt. Her breath was coming in short, quick gasps, and he decided to do as she’d asked – finish reading his letter. 

“I want you helpless and wanton under me whilst I fuck your prissy little cunt until you can't walk. Do you understand that?” He pressed his erection against her. “Can you feel how hard you make me?” 

“Yes.” The word was said with quiet conviction. He moaned as she started to rotate her hips ever so slightly, so that she was rubbing his cock gently but wantonly. His knees were weakening and his arms started to tremble. He didn’t think he'd been more turned on in his life. 

Keeping his left hand on her left hip, anchoring them both in place, he moved his right hand further up her right thigh, to the curve of her arse cheek, pinching and squeezing there. She let out a kind of keening, whimpering noise that made him even harder than he already was, if that were possible. 

He leaned towards her again and rasped into her ear, his words measured and deliberate: “I want to see you shuddering and shaking when I make you come so hard you forget your own name.” 

He slowly moved his hand around to her front, prompting her to step her legs slightly apart – it was a minuscule movement, but no less welcoming because of that. He stroked his fingers in between her legs, along the seam of her underwear. He couldn’t help let out an involuntary groan as he felt a warm wetness, even through her knickers and tights. She moved slightly, pressing herself into his fingers, clearly wanting more. 

"Malfoy…" she breathed out. 

“And all the while, I want to hear you whimper and moan and gasp out my name, begging for more...” He pressed the tip of his finger right at the spot where he thought her clit would be and she let out a small cry. He glided his fingers back and forth one more time, slowly, teasingly, before withdrawing them, grabbing her waist again, and spinning her around to face him. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair was even more unruly than normal, and her eyes were glazed. 

It was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen.

“Don’t stop,” she said. Pleaded.

He moved his arms, wrapped them around her shoulder and pulled her towards him in an embrace, which she reciprocated by circling her arms around his waist, squeezing him tightly to her. She rested her head on his shoulder, her breathing heavy and her chest rising and falling against his. He even thought he could hear her heartbeat. 

“And all the while, I want to hear you begging for more...because you will want more,” he finished, his breath hot in her ear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Hermione’s therapy notes, I thought some definitions might be interesting/useful:  
> Dissociation - from the mind.org.uk website: ‘If you dissociate, you may feel disconnected from yourself and the world around you. For example, you may feel detached from your body or feel as though the world around you is unreal…. Dissociation is one way the mind copes with too much stress, such as during a traumatic event…. Experiences of dissociation can last for a relatively short time (hours or days) or for much longer (weeks or months).’   
> Compassion fatigue - from the Wikipedia entry on ‘compassion fatigue’: ‘Compassion fatigue is a condition characterized by emotional and physical exhaustion leading to a diminished ability to empathize or feel compassion for others, often described as the negative cost of caring...People who experience compassion fatigue may exhibit a variety of symptoms including lowered concentration, numbness or feelings of helplessness, irritability, lack of self-satisfaction, withdrawal, aches and pains, or work absenteeism.’ 
> 
> *Re. update schedule*: I am going to really try and post the next chapter on schedule, next Friday, However, several things have come up for me personally, which have shaken things up a bit. Although I have several more chapters written, there may be a slight delay in posting the next chapter just to give myself a breather. However, I definitely plan to update by 22nd - two weeks time. 
> 
> As always, huge, huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazing alphabetas.
> 
> Your thoughts and comments are, as ever, loved!


	18. Just Another Drug

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the delayed update - life has got a little crazy. I'm planning for my updates to go back to once a week now, on Fridays again.  
> Thanks so much for all you comments on the last chapter - they're greatly appreciated and sorry I haven't managed to reply to them all. 
> 
> The quotes in italics in this chapter are taken from an actual book about psychological trauma called ‘The Body Keeps the Score’ by Bessel van der Kolk, so huge credit to him. 

_ Oh, place your hands on my hope / Run your fingers through my soul. / And the way that I feel right now / Oh lord it may go / ...You know you cannot hide, from what's inside... / So I ask of you, to help me through / I ask of you, this thing to do  _

_ \-  _ Place Your Hands, Reef

* * *

They stayed like that for some time, with their arms wrapped around each other. Draco was surprised at how natural it felt, to be like this with her. Part of him didn’t want it to end but as he sensed her heartbeat quieten and her breathing slow, he knew it would have to end soon. He wished they could be somewhere else – maybe an alternative universe where the war had never happened, where ‘mudblood’ and ‘Pureblood’ didn’t even fucking exist, where they could just be two young people who’d discovered they liked each other. Where he could be different with her, and not have to be forced to be someone he’d always been because he had no idea how to be anyone else. 

Because writing those letters – both the obscene one and the ‘more formal’ one – had awakened something in him. Something he’d refused to admit to himself before now: he wanted Hermione Granger, powerfully and completely. 

He didn’t know if it was just a physical desire – he couldn’t think too deeply about that. Not least because, although her  _ body  _ might like him, Granger’s  _ mind  _ clearly hated him. 

End it must, and end it did. She pulled away from him, and he missed her immediately – missed the warmth of her body next to his. 

Despite the flush of her cheeks, a familiar guarded, reproachful look had returned to her eyes. 

“You haven’t finished reading the letter,” she stated. 

He frowned. “I – what?” He’d read all of the letter, hadn’t he? 

“The last line,” she said, her voice resigned and rueful. “‘But worst of all I hate myself for wanting any of this at all’.” She took a small step backwards, straightening her skirt and smoothing her hair. “You hate that fact that part of you wants to touch me, to – to do all those things you said.” 

“No! I – I hate that I want those things because – it’s not right. It’s not right for me to want them,” he fumbled about in his mind for the right words, but they failed to materialise. What was it about her that made him so inarticulate? 

“Of course it’s not. You, with your pristine blood, wanting me with the filth that runs in my veins.” A bitter smile twisted at her lips, a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. 

“No – no – it's because –”  _ It’s because you're far too good for me _ .  _ You’re far too good for me and I don't deserve you and there’s no way I want to taint your existence with my sullied, rotten self! _ But despite the fact that his mind had finally provided him with the words, he couldn't speak them. Instead, he voiced words which were a poor compensation: “Because you’re Hermione Granger and I’m, well,  _ me,  _ and we – we have a fucking shitty history and it would be a disaster, it would be fucked up if we –” His words failed him again. He gestured helplessly between himself and her, attempting to indicate what had just happened. “Did this. And you hate me. I mean – your  _ body  _ doesn’t hate me – but  _ you  _ clearly do.” 

Her eyes glinted with something he couldn't read, and despite the ambiguity of the expression, he felt the familiar relief that at least they were glinting with  _ something _ , and not filled with the dull passive indifference they so often were. 

“Maybe that’s why it’ll work,” she said quietly, tentatively. 

“That’s why – what? What's why what will work?” 

Her expression twisted then, as if echoing her mind’s difficulty in expressing itself. “That we don’t really – don’t really like each other – not really. If we just carried on with a – with a kind of physical-only relationship, maybe because of how we really feel about each other, it will help keep it physical, and our emotions won’t get in the way.” 

It sounded like the best and worst idea he’d ever heard, all at once. Draco’s thoughts reeled, trying to understand Hermione Granger’s mind. 

He remembered Alethea’s notes:  _...high sense of responsibility, esp. for others’ welfare and safety….high compassion for others... These are all risk factors for compassion fatigue/emotional burnout….  _

“I can’t hurt you, you mean?” he said, realisation dawning as he spoke. “And you can’t hurt me? I’m not another person you need to feel responsible for, or feel guilty about? Because you think – because we don’t actually care about each other?”

She let out a kind of amused huff, looked at the floor and scuffed her foot absent-mindedly. “It’s so ironic that, out of everyone, you understand me so well.” She spoke so quietly, it was as if she were talking to herself. Then she looked at him, her eyes piercing, and said more loudly, “But – well, Nott told me about your family’s tendency to feel love more deeply –” 

“That’s not a thing,” he snapped out. 

“Well, even if it was, it wouldn’t impact us, would it? ‘Cause you could never like  _ me  _ properly. Not seriously.” 

Something twisted his insides. He tried to make his voice as expressionless as possible when he said, “No. I suppose not.” 

There was a pause as they both looked at each other. Draco’s thoughts shifted and slid and tried to arrange themselves into a coherent whole. “So, you’re basically saying you want something purely physical? Just to fuck?” 

“I suppose so, yes.” 

It was absurd, and could go wrong in a myriad of ways – but he couldn’t help looking at the exposed skin just above her collarbone and how he desperately wanted to kiss it….how he wanted to rip the shirt from her body, how long he’d spent fantasising about what she would look like in her underwear – her breasts, the dips and curves of her… His cock was stirring again. 

Maybe she was right. Maybe it was what they needed – what  _ he  _ needed – to get her out of his system. 

He moved slowly towards her, lifted her chin with his hand so she was looking him in the eyes. He saw sincerity there – she really wanted this. He bent down and kissed her – a tentative kiss for once, and she responded eagerly. When he felt her warm hands grasp at his waist, he pulled away. 

“Okay,” he said, although it came out a kind of grunt. “But on one condition.” 

She looked uncertain, a frown creasing her forehead. “What?” 

Memories of the rage he’d felt when she saw him kissing Ernie Macmillan collided around his head. “We’re exclusive...for as long as we’re doing this...I need to know that you’re only doing this with me.” 

“Of course,” her voice was indignant. So indignant he believed her whole-heartedly, and that felt like a relief. 

“So whatever that thing was with Ron Weasley – it’s off right?” 

“It’s most definitely off.” 

“And nothing else has happened with the Hufflepuff? Macmillan?” 

She let out another amused scoff. “No.” 

He felt his face softening. “Good,” he said gently. 

There was another pause. Her eyes were on his torso, one hand fiddling with a button on his shirt. 

“And we won’t tell anyone,” she said quietly, not looking at him. 

Of course she would want to keep it their dirty little secret – she wouldn’t want the shame of others knowing that she’d allowed Draco Malfoy to touch her. 

“Of course not,” he said through gritted teeth. 

She looked up at him then, through half lidded eyes, and he couldn’t help but lean forward and meet his lips with hers again, before peppering hurried kisses down her neck. His hands scrambled to get under her shirt, up to her breasts, kneading and squeezing, and she was gasping into his mouth in between kisses, whilst she fisted one hand in his hair and stroked the other one down his chest. 

He impatiently tried to pull the cup of her bra down, causing her to giggle – a glorious sound – at the fumbling nature of his movements. He was vaguely aware of her reaching for her wand and casting a spell which undid all her buttons at once. A really rather wonderful spell, Draco concluded. He pulled back, looking down at her chest, which was just as beautiful as he’d imagined – maybe even more so – as her hands reached for his belt. 

As their lips joined again together in yet another kiss, he pulled at her shirt, trying to get it off her, but her hands were fiddling with his flies by that point, and it was impossible. So he gripped her wrists, yanked her hands away from him and pulled them to her sides, before immediately reaching up to take her shirt off. But she grabbed hold of his forearms, instantly stilling him. 

“No,” she stated, her tone uncompromising. 

His eyes drifted over her face and along her arms, trying to understand the reason for her inexplicable halt. Then he caught a glimpse of white gauze, poking out from her left sleeve, and he remembered: the bandage. 

He pulled his arm free from her grip – she relinquished it easily – and encircled her left wrist lightly with his hand, before softly stroking down her arm, over her shirt. She took a sharp intake of breath, which he hoped wasn’t from pain, but couldn't be sure. 

“Take off your shirt,” he murmured, not inhibiting a note of command that instinctively came to his voice. “I  _ know _ . Just let me see. Take it off.” 

Her look of defiance dissolved into one of resignation. She pulled out of his grasp and shook off her shirt. His eyes immediately went to her bandage. It looked fairly fresh, possibly freshly applied that morning, and something twisted his insides as he took in the bright red spots of fresh blood that had seeped through, staining the white. 

“Okay, there are  _ two  _ conditions,” he heard his own words before he was really aware of saying them, or – more importantly –  _ why  _ he was saying them. “You’re to leave this alone," he whispered, running his hand lightly over her bandaged arm, deliberately avoiding the crimson blotches. 

Her eyes flashed with anger or fear – he couldn’t tell which. Maybe it was both. "Malfoy, that’s none of your business. I – I hardly do anything to it...it just keeps bleeding. It won't heal, I think it was the dark magic that was –” 

“I know all about the dark fucking magic in that was in that blade, Granger. But your arm isn’t still bleeding because of that. I’ve seen the way you can’t leave it alone. The way you scratch and rub at it. God  _ knows  _ what you do when you’re alone. I don’t want you hurting yourself.” His last words were definitive. A command. 

Granger's face fell. She looked small, childlike, and he hated that he’d caused her to look so vulnerable. But her expression was an admission that he was right. 

"Why do you do it?" His words were forceful, and he realised he was angry. Angry at whatever it was that meant Hermione Granger continued to gnaw at a cursed wound his own fucking aunt had cut into her. 

Then he saw a watery glisten in her eyes and he realised, to his dismay, that it was the beginning of tears. He wanted to scour them from her – burn them from her eyes – and inexplicably found himself bringing her left wrist up to his mouth and planting a firm kiss just where her bandage met her skin. 

Her lips parted and she took a long, slow inhale before saying, "I – it just distracts me, when something difficult happens. Or when sometimes I don't feel anything at all – it helps me feel...something…” she trailed off, and Draco remembered her attempt at falling into oblivion off the Astronomy Tower battlements just for ‘the rush’. 

He was aware his expression was still stony, but didn’t know what would happen if he allowed other emotions to play across his face – there was a danger in how vulnerable that made him. He entwined his fingers with hers, guiding her hand so it rested on his waist and kept it there with his own before cupping her jaw with his other hand and pulling her lips towards him in another kiss, slow and deep. Then he pulled back again and looked down at her, his eyes burrowing into hers. 

"So next time, if you need a distraction or just need to ‘feel something’, you find me," he said. Granger opened her mouth to speak, no doubt in protest, so he carried on before she had the chance. "Write to me in our stupid Books or whatever. Just don’t fucking hurt yourself." 

She frowned, clearly uncertain, so he continued with his last shot: “Otherwise, this whole thing is off.” 

Her shoulders slumped resignedly. “Fine,” she conceded. 

He nodded shortly. “You promise?” 

She smiled then. A small, possibly amused smile. “I promise.” 

Something relaxed inside him, and she stroked her hand along his cheek. Confusing emotions aroused in him at the unusually tender gesture from her. “I should go,” she said quietly. “But – do you want to meet tomorrow evening, maybe? Here again?” 

She didn't need to state the reason for their meeting, and his cock stirred at the enticing, unspoken promise in her suggestion. 

“Okay.” His voice was low, husky. 

She took a step backwards from him, withdrew her wand and magicked her shirt buttons up again. Then she rifled in her skirt pocket and withdrew a folded piece of parchment which she held out to him. 

“That’s my letter. To you,” she said quietly. 

“Oh. Thanks.” 

She nodded shortly, and gave him another rueful smile before brushing past him and walking from the room. 

He waited until he’d heard the sound of her footsteps fade away before unfolding the letter. It was short, but the content was no less compelling because of it: 

_ Malfoy, _

_ I want you to help me forget. With your touch and your lips and your body. I want you to help me forget. _

_ Granger.  _

* * *

Over the last few weeks before the end of term, Draco met with Hermione Granger with increasing frequency. Secretly and surreptitiously, often in the old Divination room when their meetings were planned, but sometimes more spontaneously – in alcoves, behind ancient statues, in disused cupboards, and once in an old broom shed on the other side of the Quidditch pitch.

They touched at first – with their hands and lips and tongues – touched each other amidst passionate, prolonged kisses, and learnt the contours of each other's bodies. Draco thought of doing much more with her but part of him didn’t want to rush, lest he jinx what was happening between them somehow. 

Sometimes, his feelings for her became so overwhelming, he had to stop and just look at her – take all of her in; he felt a confusing mix of emotions with her that he’d never felt when he’d been with Pansy. 

They were both eager and hungry with their touches. Not long after they’d start kissing, she would often burrow her hand into his trousers, wrap her palm around his hardening cock. He would always be rock hard; normally, his erection would be stirring for the previous hour, just from knowing they were meeting, from just thinking about her. 

As with everything else, she was a committed and diligent learner when it came to his body; she quickly mastered the exact speed and pressure which brought him close to the edge. Sometimes, she would tease him with that, stopping and starting and stopping again in a kind of delicious, exquisite torture.

He, in turn, learnt about her. He was determined to become an expert in exactly how she liked to be kissed, sucked, licked. He spent over an hour once, caressing and stroking and teasing her without letting her touch him. Her cunt became so wet, and she’d started pleading to come, prompting him to mumble from between her thighs, “Fuck…I love it when you beg…” 

He found that it was often his words that turned her on just as much as anything else. But really, he shouldn’t have been surprised that words would be such a turn on for her... _the_ _power of language…_

* * *

When he wasn’t spending his free time exploring Hermione Granger’s body, he read. Alethea's notes from Granger’s file kept drifting into his mind’s eye, and he wanted to understand them, to know what they meant, to know how they fitted with the Granger that he’d started to have furtive, illicit meetings with. 

Alethea had recommended a book to him once. “If you’d like to know more about psychological trauma and its consequences, it might be worth a read,” she’d said. Towards the end of the winter term, he asked for it during one of his sessions, but she said that she’d leant it to Theo. This didn’t surprise him – Theo was almost as prolific a reader as Granger. 

“Oh, yeah, I’ve mostly finished with it,” Theo said when Draco asked him about it. “It’s over there – help yourself.” Theo nodded to a stack of books on his bedside table.

As Draco carefully pulled the text out from a precarious pile of books, he spotted another one –  _ Me and Pureblood Supremacy _ – and remembered Theo explaining about confronting ‘unconscious Pureblood biases’.

“Can I borrow this one as well?”

“Sure,” Theo replied, a knowing look on his face that Draco purposely ignored. “I’ve finished it. It was good.”

He dipped in and out of the trauma book at first –  _ The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind and Body in the Healing of Trauma,  _ it was called. Then he started to read it cover to cover. It was a Muggle book, but Alethea insisted all the theory applied to magical kind too; “When it comes to trauma reactions, our brains are essentially the same,” she’d said. 

_ While we want to move beyond trauma, the part of our brain that is devoted to ensuring our survival (deep below our rational brain) is not very good at denial,  _ Draco read one evening at the beginning of December _. Long after the traumatic experience is over, it may be reactivated at the slightest hint of danger and mobilise disturbed brain circuits and secrete massive amounts of stress hormones, intense physical sensations, and impulsive and aggressive actions.  _

_...reactivated at the slightest hint of danger and mobilise...impulsive and aggressive actions...  _ Draco remembered when Granger had happened upon Freddie Flint and his bullies, remembered her startling, violent reaction at the word ‘Mudblood’...

_ These reactions can feel incomprehensible to the person and overwhelming. Feeling out of control, survivors of trauma often begin to fear that they are damaged to the core and beyond redemption...  _

_...damaged to the core and beyond redemption _ – the words resonated with Draco in a visceral way – it was something he and Alethea continued to talk about in their sessions. 

_...if, during a traumatic event, the flight/flight/freeze response is successful, we escape the danger, we recover our internal equilibrium and regain our sense. If, for some reasons, our normal response is blocked, for example, if someone is held down or trapped, the brain continues to fire in vain. Long after the actual event has passed, the brain - if it’s triggered - may keep sending signals to the body to escape a threat that no longer exists… Being able to move and do something to protect oneself is a critical factor in determining whether or not a horrible experience will leave long-lasting scars.  _

_...if someone is held down, trapped... _ Draco’s mind was invaded with images of Granger being pinned down on the floor of his drawing room, for what had seemed like hours…

Nothing he was reading was entirely new to him, it all related to things he’d talked about with Alethea. But reading it with Granger in mind meant pieces of a puzzle he hadn’t realised he’d been trying to solve were slotting together in his mind. 

He would watch Granger during the day – across classrooms and courtyards, as they passed each other in the halls. Her eyes continued to look dulled, except when they were together – when he was burying his fingers deep inside her, or when she’d look up at him as she knelt at his feet, just before she wrapped her lips around his cock – when they were together like that they’d sparkle again with some kind of life. 

And he even began to understand her dead eyes better...

_...the breakdown in the thalamus explains why trauma is primarily remembered not as a story, a narrative with a beginning, middle and end, but as isolated sensory imprints: images, sounds and physical sensations that are accompanied by intense emotions, usually terror and helplessness…. People with PTSD have their floodgates wide open. Lacking a filter, they are on constant sensory overload. In order to cope, they try to shut themselves down and develop tunnel vision and hyperfocus. If they can’t shut down naturally, they may enlist drugs or alcohol to black out the world _ ….

He thought of ecstasis, and the way Granger had relentlessly downed the alcoholic punch at the Reconciliation Ball. 

It was odd how familiar he was starting to feel with her mind, as well as her body, considering they barely spoke when they did meet. They mostly exchanged whispered requests or fervent comments: “...please...yes, like that…that feels so good…” He was surprised at how unsurprised he was at her forwardness, and was desperate to know, but at the same time loathed to know, her sexual history.

_...many traumatised people find themselves commonly out of sync with the people around them...in the past two decades it has become commonly acknowledged that when traumatised adults or children are too skittish or shut down to derive comfort from human beings, relationships with mammals can help. Dogs and horses and even dolphins offer less complicated companionship while providing the necessary safety. They are now extensively used to treat some groups of trauma patients...engaging with them may be much safer than dealing with human beings... _

“You know the ugly cat that Granger used to have?” Draco asked as he read on his bed, looking up at Theo and Blaise, who were lounging around their dorm. It was a few days before the start of the Christmas holidays. “You know – the one with the manky fur and squashed up face?”

“Vaguely,” Blaise said, vaguely.

“Think so,” Theo replied, a little more helpfully.

“What happened to it?”

The two friends gave him blank bemused looks. Theo shrugged. “Probably another war casualty…or something.”

“You’ve been asking a lot of questions about Granger recently,” Blaise remarked, ever the one for subtlety. “Why don’t you ask her yourself…or is your mouth too busy with other things when you’re in her company?”

Draco’s heart skipped, and Theo snapped his head at Blaise, giving him a warning look. 

“What the fuck, Blaise?” Draco snapped angrily.

Draco had thought he’d been careful when meeting with Granger, but he supposed he was inexplicably missing a lot of the time, which was bound to quip Blaise’s curiosity. 

“Well, if it’s not Granger you’re fucking, then it’s definitely someone. I’m not bloody blind.”

“It’s not fucking Granger,” Draco retorted.

“No,  _ it’s  _ not fucking Granger.  _ You’re _ fucking Granger.”

“No. I. Am. Not.” Draco wouldn’t have actually minded telling them about his salacious meetings with Granger, but he’d promised her he would keep it between them, and he didn’t break his promises. 

“Whatever,” Blaise said with a shrug.

Technically, he  _ wasn’t  _ fucking Granger, so he hadn’t quite lied to them anyway. As in, they hadn’t had sex. Granger had attempted to initiate it a couple of times, but Draco had held back – he wasn’t sure why. He was aware of the impending holidays, that he would have two weeks without seeing her, and couldn't bear to do something so intensely intimate with her when they’d immediately have two weeks apart – he didn’t think he could handle that.

His desire for her hadn’t waned; the idea of ‘getting it out his system’ seemed laughable now. If anything, their meetings had stirred something unwaverable in him that had only grown stronger and more intense, to an almost feverish degree. At least, that’s what it felt like for him. Probably, for Granger, it was just another way of ‘helping her forget’, like the drink and the ecstasis. Maybe he was just another fucking drug to her that helped numb the pain for a while.

Regardless, he couldn't stop it. Not now.

* * *

On the last weekend of term, Draco found himself walking into the Hogsmeade branch of Magical Menagerie. The teachers allowed the eighth years to go into the village on any weekend; it was one restriction they’d obviously felt would be stupid to enforce, considering their age and experiences. Pity they didn’t feel the same about other house rules, but anyway.

The bell that signalled his entrance jingled loudly above the squeaking, squawking, hissing and hooting of a myriad of creatures. The interior of the shop was dusty, dark and seemingly empty of humans, although plenty of animals scurried about in cages that lined the walls.

Greta, the shop’s proprietor, came bustling towards him from the back of the building. She had a welcoming, beaming smile on her face which instantly faltered as she saw who he was. Draco was unfazed – he had gotten used to this reaction from people over the summer holidays.

“Hello. How can I help you?” Greta asked, in what Draco conceded was a good enough attempt at politeness.

“I’m – erm – looking for a cat. Looking to buy a cat.”

“Oh. Right-oh. We have quite a range of cats at the moment. That one there – that’s Bluebell, a British Shorthair, for example – and then there’s …”

Greta started reeling off cat names and breeds, whilst pointing out the animals that were peppered about the shop – basking in the sunlight in the window, curled up on cushions on the front desk, brushing against his ankles. They all seemed…fine. Maybe too fine.

“Erm – I’m looking for one that maybe no one else wants? One that isn’t so…pretty?”

Greta raised her eyebrows, and was silent for several moments. Clearly his request had surprised her. Or else she was thinking. Possibly both.

“Oh. Well...there is Nox.”

“Nox?”

“Yes. A black, cat-kneazle crossbreed. Not the most original name for a black cat, but there you go… He normally hides out the back.” Greta turned and began shuffling towards the back of the shop, calling over her shoulder, “Come on, this way. He’s a rescue cat. Was horribly mistreated before. Here he is.”

She stopped in a corner and pointed to a cat who was lying in a ray of sun that slanted in through the back door. The cat raised its head, and looked at Draco, its expression sleepy but suspicious. Indeed, he was not a pretty cat. Some of his hair was missing in places – Greta explained he’d caught some illness that hadn’t been treated for a long time – and one of his eyes only half opened due to an injury from the abuse he’d suffered.

“He’s a little wary of strangers, understandably, but once you’ve earned his trust, he really is a very lovely cat,” Greta entreated.

As Draco stepped towards him, Nox raised his hind legs, his fur standing on end, and let out a violent hiss. 

The cat clearly hated him.

“He’s perfect,” Draco stated. “I’ll take him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, huge, huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazing alphabetas.
> 
> Your thoughts and comments are, as ever, loved!
> 
> I love connecting with other readers and writers so feel free to hunt me out on Facebook, I'm Susie Lunamionny. I'm also on tumblr (kind of): https://lunamionny.tumblr.com/ - but I'm still working out how to use that website!


	19. Nox

_Tender is the night / Lying by your side / Tender is the touch / Of someone that you love too much / Tender is the day / The demons go away / Lord I need to find / Someone who can heal my mind / Come on, come on, come on / Get through it / Come on, come on, come on / Love's the greatest thing / That we have_

\- Tender, Blur.

* * *

Hermione had been dreading the Christmas holidays. She'd arranged to 'lodge' again with her parents and, although a part of her was desperate to be near them again, she'd received reports from the healers that their memories were much the same as they'd been at the end of the summer holidays. But the healers insisted that it would help jog her parents' memories for Hermione to be around them, and so she'd reluctantly conceded that it was worth a try – to stay with them for most of the two-week Christmas holidays. She wasn't going to spend Christmas Day with them, of course, that would be unbearably painful, as well as hard to manipulate – why would the Grangers spend Christmas Day with a strange young lodger?

Instead, she would be apparating to Hogsmeade and spending the twenty-fifth with the school staff and the other lost students who had nowhere to go. Molly had sent her a very insistent invite to the newly-built Burrow for Christmas Day, but Hermione had declined. She had barely been in touch with Ron over the last term. They had exchanged friendly but short, distant letters over the last months, and Hermione had thought it would be too awkward to spend Christmas Day at his family home, as an unattached single guest. It would be a cruel reminder of how things should have been, in a different life maybe – a happy and enthusiastic partner of one of the Weasleys. It would just be a reminder to all of them of another loss.

She had compromised, though, by accepting an invitation to a Weasley dinner on the twenty-first.

The evening, as it turned out, was bearable. Charlie answered the door to her; he was home for Christmas for once. But then, of course he would be home _this_ Christmas, out of all of them. They would all be making an effort to fill the void that Fred had left, surely.

As Hermione stepped over the threshold, she immediately felt engulfed by the warmth and smells of a Weasley Christmas. Homemade decorations hung cheerfully from the ceilings, she felt the heat of numerous lit fireplaces, and was hit by the scent of cinnamon, nutmeg and roasting chestnuts.

She was led through to the kitchen and confronted by a sea of freckled faces and copper hair, with Harry's dark mop bobbing about amongst it all like a stray buoy. It was hard to take them all in at first, as was always the way when walking into a full Weasley home.

Suddenly, she was suffocated by a fierce hug from Molly, the kind of which Hermione thought she hadn't felt in years. It threatened to let loose a swathe of emotions in her, which would have cut through her numbness like a shard of glass if she hadn't made a concerted effort to push them down straight away.

"Oh, Hermione dear! So wonderful to see you – let me look at you!" Molly clasped both Hermione's cheeks firmly in her hands, holding her head in place and examining her face. The Weasley matriarch studied her with such an intense expression of concern, compassion and love that Hermione felt an ominous bubbling of emotions again. She wished Molly would stop looking at her, would loosen her grip. She felt she might shatter under the scrutiny and the care that Molly clearly wanted to shower on her.

"Mum, let her go, you might break her jaw," said a rueful voice. To Hermione's relief, Molly seemed to take heed of the warning and relinquished her, before bustling back to the red cabbage that was braising on the hob.

Hermione turned and saw Ron for the first time, tall and gangly, with a sheepish smile on his face. "Hey, Hermione," he said, and stepped forward to embrace her in an awkward hug. "It's good to see you – I'm glad you could come." He sounded sincere, and Hermione believed that he _was_ genuinely happy to see her.

She withdrew behind her mental glass wall during the meal. She let the Weasleys and Harry bustle around her, smiled at their pleasantries and politely answered their questions. Everyone was making an effort – an effort to pretend that there wasn't an aching abyss in the Weasley family get-together. Hermione could see it in Arthur's strained smile, in the forced jokes, in the way no one could let a silence go on for too long.

Then, when George got up to get a glass of water, Molly, her cheeks rosy from one-too-many sherries, called after him, "Oh, would you get me one too, Fred dear?"

The room froze as Molly's last words hung in the air around them, heavy and laden with hitherto unspoken loss.

George looked down at the floor where he stood awkwardly by the sink and Hermione stared down at her half-eaten meal, not bearing to glance up at the uncomfortable, pained expressions of the people sitting around the table. Her right hand twitched to rub at her left forearm, but she remembered her promise to Malfoy and clenched her fist around her fork instead, bearing the pain without the distraction found in irritating her cuts. She had managed to leave them alone since she'd promised Malfoy she would, and they had actually started to heal properly for the first time.

"Oh!" Molly exclaimed, slicing through the tense silence with a shrill laugh. "I mean – you know what I mean! I'm always doing that, aren't I? Must be all the sherry!"

And they all smiled and laughed whilst George returned to the table with two glasses of water, and Percy changed the subject to something inordinately dull about the Ministry's change of letterheads, a topic which all the Weasleys contributed to with forced enthusiasm and interest.

At the end of the evening, when Hermione was leaving, Ron insisted on walking her to the Apparition point, just outside of the Burrow's protective enchantments. The Weasley wards were now some of the most powerful known to Wizarding kind, and every guest needed to be accompanied by a member of the household to pass through them. It was one of the many marks the war had left behind.

"So, how _are_ you?'' Ron asked as they made their way through the orchard. "I haven't managed to speak to you properly all evening."

It was true – she'd sat between Arthur and Charlie at dinner and had barely exchanged a word with Ron.

"Oh, fine," she said, giving him a strained smile.

"Good. That's good. Sorry I haven't written much. You know I'm no good with writing and stuff," Ron said sheepishly. "But – you know – I have been wondering how you're doing. Been thinking of you."

She looked at him then, and saw the sincerity swimming in the sea blue of his eyes.

"Oh. I'm fine. Just been doing the usual stuff...lessons, homework...NEWTs are quite full on this year..." Images flashed in her head – of platinum blond hair nestling between her legs, of Draco Malfoy's piercing eyes as he pinched her nipple, just on the right side of pleasurable pain. She pushed them away, inwardly suppressing a laugh at the idea of telling Ron about _all_ she'd been up to during her last few weeks of Hogwarts.

"I'm sure you'll sail through, though. Listen...Hermione," Ron stopped and turned to face her, forcing Hermione to come to a halt too. His forehead crinkled in the way it did when he was trying to work something out. "Are you sure you're alright? You just...don't seem quite yourself. I mean, I know my family is always a bit much but...over dinner, you just seemed – a bit distant – not quite there."

Hermione's heart stuttered. She knew she probably hadn't been acting herself recently – whatever 'herself' was anymore – but no one else had seemed to have noticed during the last months at school –she wasn't sure why Ron had picked up on it when so many others hadn't.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I hope I didn't seem rude or anything."

"No, no, not at all. I don't think anyone else noticed anything. It's just, well, we know each other so well, don't we?"

"I suppose so…" Hermione felt an unexpected stab of loss and nostalgia for how things used to be with Ron – simple, uncomplicated – before the war had fractured that, like it had with so much else. "But – I'm fine, really. It's just a strange Christmas, with my parents how they are and stuff..."

"Oh, yeah. I'm sorry they're not back to normal yet. You know you're welcome here right? The invitation still stands, right up 'til Christmas morning. Mum always cooks twice as much as we need."

"Yes – no – it's fine, thanks." Hermione continued to walk on, and Ron followed. Walking through the wheat field reminded her of when Ron had gone on his solitary wanderings last summer, trying to walk his way out of the pain of grief. "How are you getting on?"

"Oh, yeah, fine. Auror training's good. It's great to be doing something active. Can be quite gruelling though. Really miss you and Harry, as well. Weird not seeing you both so much."

"I know…"

They crossed over the boundaries of the Weasley wards and both stopped, looking at each other.

"Hermione," Ron's face twisted in a way it did when he was trying to find the right words for things. "I wanted to say – I'm sorry for how things ended between us. I know – I understand now that maybe it was right to end things...and I'm sorry it was so...difficult."

Emotion swelled up in her – relief. He didn't hate her, didn't begrudge her, she hadn't caused him irretrievable pain. "Oh, that's okay." She even managed a warm, genuine smile.

"I hope that we can...you know, be friends still."

"Yes, yes I'd like that," she said, and realised that she genuinely meant it.

It would never be like it used to be, Hermione knew that, and she knew that Ron knew that too. But relationships evolved, and this new stage of her friendship with Ron wouldn't be weaker than before, just different. They had gone through too much together for it to be otherwise.

They shared a smile, a smile that made Hermione think that maybe Ron was silently understanding all this too.

"Okay. Well, I'll try and be better at writing to you...and maybe see you at Easter?" Ron asked hopefully.

"Yes. That would be nice."

"Cool. Bye then...take care...and let me know if you – I dunno, let me know if you need anything."

Hermione grinned, which was surprisingly easy, considering how rarely she smiled anymore. "I will do. Bye Ron," she said, reaching out and giving him another awkward hug.

She paused for a moment before disapparating away, watching Ron's retreating form. There was something different about it, and Hermione wondered if he'd grown even taller. Then she realised that no, it wasn't that – he was just standing straighter.

* * *

In the quiet of the night, when her parents had gone to bed, she thought of Malfoy. She thought of his lips and his kisses and how the colours of his irises changed depending on the light.

She would become hot and feverish and long for his touch and her hand would slip under the waist of her pyjamas, and she'd wonder if he'd be thinking of her too. She sometimes thought of writing in her Binding Book, but at the last minute would always hesitate and think – what would be the point? Meeting in school was one thing, but it's not as if he'd Apparate to her over the holidays and leave the comfort of his home at Christmas time, was it? She knew he was spending Christmas at his home; they'd talked about their plans before the end of term.

"You're going to the Weasleys?" he'd asked, his lips twitching and arm tightening around her waist where it had been lying.

"Just for dinner on the twenty-first, yes."

"Will Ron be there?" His lips had formed into a determined grimace.

"I don't see where else he'd be."

He shifted away from her, giving her an assessing look. She didn't know how to respond to him when he was like this. She'd agreed to being exclusive – she had absolutely no desire or intention of doing anything with anyone else – but for some reason he seemed bothered she'd be seeing Ron. She couldn't understand why – their conversation had heavily implied that Malfoy didn't care about her enough to be bothered by what she did in her spare time.

He hadn't wanted anyone knowing either. "And we won't tell anyone?" she remembered asking him, only for him to reply with a definitive, "Of course not." She hadn't been surprised by his response – why on earth would Draco Malfoy want people to know he was sullying himself with a Muggle-born?

The letter he'd written had initially shocked her. When she'd opened it in the library, the words had ricocheted round her head like an assault. She'd felt her face burning and had to rush out of the library and into the corridor, needing air, wanting to be alone with just the letter and his words.

She wondered at first whether it was some kind of joke – or insult. But then she thought – why would he do that? Surely the risks to him of doing that far outweighed the gains, and acting on those odds wasn't in Malfoy's nature.

So then she'd entertained the idea that maybe he'd meant them. And with that thought came other sensations – a hot flush to her chest, images of him doing the things he wrote about to her...the thought that he'd _want_ to do those things sent a rush of wet heat between her legs.

And he'd been right – she had read the letter countless times after that, curled up in bed, lighting the parchment up with her wand, until she'd memorised it and would replay the lines to herself when sitting in class, in the library, walking about the grounds. The way they made her feel was such a welcome distraction from the numbness and the occasional stuttering of alarm.

Then she realised that she wanted more than words, she wanted the reality. Which is why she'd needed to know if he meant them, and why she'd written the letter she had to him.

The next couple of weeks had gone by in a blur – she'd craved their meetings. Hence why she'd dreaded the holidays – not just because of having to face the blank looks of her parents, or the Weasley dinner, but also because she'd be without Malfoy's touch and taste and smell for two whole weeks.

And so here she was, sitting at a lone table in the middle of the Great Hall, a table dwarfed by the high walls and vast, vaulted ceiling. The six Christmas trees and sprinkling of fairy lights did give it an air of cosiness, though. And the Hogwarts food was delicious as usual, the teachers were kind and there was a semblance of Christmas cheer.

As the meal came to a close, Hagrid spoke up.

"Oh, nearly forgot! I got someink for ya!" he said, gesturing to Hermione, before plodding out the Hall. "Be back in a minute!"

About twenty minutes later, Hagrid came back with a black bundle wrapped in his arms.

"This were left with me just before the Christmas holidays, in a basket on the doorstep of me cabin. Nowt with it, just an envelope that says 'To Hermione Granger, please give to her on Christmas Day'."

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed as she realised the bundle in Hagrid's arms was, in fact, a cat. She hurriedly opened the envelope which he passed to her. All it contained was a note on which was written, in anonymous typeface: _I'm Nox. Please look after me._

"Well – 'ere you go!" Hagrid declared, and semi-shoved the cat into her arms.

Hermione had no choice but to take it, despite her internal protests. She was in no place to look after a cat, she could barely look after herself. The cat – Nox – abruptly jumped from her arms and scurried to the side of the room, looking back at her suspiciously. Despite it's hostile greeting, Nox made her feel a deep pang of loss for Crookshanks, who had gone to Australia with her parents, and had disappeared at some point since.

Hermione crept slowly towards Nox, trying not to startle him into running away further. She summoned a saucer and some milk from the table and placed it on the floor a foot or so away from him.

"Yeah, looks like he's a cautious sort – need to earn it's trust," Hagrid advised.

Nox eventually edged towards Hermione and she studied him more closely, with Hagrid peering over her shoulder. "That fur loss is from a type of feline spattergroit, that is, and that eye injury – look like he's been in the wars, poor thing."

Hermione could see what Hagrid meant. Nox did look a bit worse for wear. But, well – "I think he's perfect," she stated conclusively.

* * *

It was only the first evening of the spring term when Hermione's Binding Book glowed warm and lit up. She reached for it from where she was lying on her bed and flicked the pages open, seeing Malfoys familiar scrawl:

_DM: Meet me in the usual place? In an hour?_

She wondered whether she should be more hesitant, 'play it cool' as Parvati would say, but she found her hand wasn't quite connected with her body as it picked up her quill and wrote a response:

_HM: Okay._

He was already there when she entered, standing in the middle of the room amongst the faded cushions. After she locked the door behind her, they stood, staring at each other without speaking for an inexplicable amount of time. She wondered whether she should ask about his holidays – that's what someone would normally do on these occasions, wasn't it? But her words were dissolving as she stared into his eyes – slate grey now in the dark evening, and he was closing the gap between them and she was suddenly enveloped in his embrace as he crushed his lips to hers. The next moments were a blur of frantic fumbling as they tugged on each other's clothes, mutual gasps and moans as they kissed each other on any exposed skin they could find.

They somehow stumbled to the floor – onto the cushions – and her hands were scrambling to undo his trousers, as his hand delved under her shirt, then her bra, whilst his other hand hiked up her skirt. She fell onto her back, arching her hips up so she could push her knickers down her legs and kick them off. He moved so he was leaning over her and she hitched her right leg up so it was resting against his hip.

He started stroking gently, teasingly, from her clitoris to her entrance, causing her to keen, pleading with her eyes for him not to stop, as her hand worked its way into his boxer shorts and grasped around his cock. She felt the wetness of pre-come as she started to stroke him, her pace quickening as he started to rub her clitoris with an expert rhythm that he'd learnt she loved. But then he suddenly stopped, withdrew his hand which caused her to moan in protest, as he leant back and pushed his trousers and boxers down his legs.

He paused, his gaze wandering slowly up and down her body, his cheeks flushed and eyes glazed with want, before leaning forward again and positioning himself between her legs. As he started to kiss her, he reached down and she felt him guide the tip of his cock so it was stroking over the wetness between her legs. Fuck, that felt so good, but she wanted – _needed_ – more. She let out a low, pleading kind of keen and arched herself upwards, willing to feel more of his cock – willing it inside her.

"Fuck, I want you," he mumbled, the intensity of his eyes burning her corneas. "Do you – do you want me too?"

She nodded unhesitatingly. "Yes," she rasped out.

"Have you – before?" he said. His eyes were unreadable.

She nodded again. "Yes," she repeated. He seemed to look relieved and unsettled both at the same time. Then she wondered – had _he_? She'd just assumed that he had. "You?"

He leant down, kissing her jawline, continuing to move his cock tortuously around her entrance.

"Yes. I have. Before,"

And then she had to know. "With Pansy?"

"Yes," he said. "You?" He frowned as if in pain, and to her dismay moved away from her slightly, so he was lying next to her.

"Ron," she admitted. But surely that wouldn't surprise him. "Just a few times – at the beginning of last summer. And then – another man. A Muggle."

He frowned deepened. "Who?"

"Just a man – it – he doesn't matter. I haven't seen or spoke to him since last summer."

"He doesn't matter?" Malfoy repeated.

She leant forward and planted a gentle kiss on his lips. "He doesn't matter," she reassured him.

He hummed into her mouth in acknowledgement and then deepened the kiss, before moving back so he was leaning over her again.

"We should do the protection charm…" she murmured, wishing it wasn't necessary, because it was always so awkward. But he just nodded, swiftly retrieved his wand, pointed it down between their legs and cast the charm, before clumsily dropping his wand so it clattered away along the floor.

Then she felt it again – the tip of his cock against her entrance, and she wriggled up into him; her cunt was aching for stimulation. Frustratingly, he hesitated again.

"You're sure?" he asked, his voice husky.

She nodded. "Yes." She purposely made her voice firm.

"Tell me if it hurts – or – or if you want to stop."

"Okay," she managed to gasp out as he pushed gently into her.

She inhaled sharply at the intense, exquisite sensation of him finally filling her up and closed her eyes, just wanting to feel him as he started to move inside her.

"Look at me," His voice was commanding, causing her to open her eyes and her gaze to lock with his, as he moved slowly, gently inside her – possibly too gently.

"Faster. Harder," she pleaded.

"Yeah?" he murmured, and at her nod of confirmation, he did as she'd asked.

Nerves she didn't know she sparked throughout her body as Malfoy increased his pace, waves of heat lapped over her, and she started letting out a string of moans and words, all incoherent except for his name.

As he continued to move inside her, she saw that his eyes gradually lost their hollow, harsh edge. They looked warm, tender almost – and she realised that she'd never felt more connected to another human being.

* * *

The next morning, Hermione's Binding Book lit up again. But this time, it was the mundane typeface of the Book rather than Malfoy's scrawl that had appeared on its pages:

_oOo_

_Welcome back to Hogwarts! We hope you had a lovely Christmas._

_Your fourth task_

_Your fourth task is to teach one another a skill. So, each of you choose what it is you would like to learn from the other. Obviously, it will be more beneficial for both parties to choose something to learn that your partner is more accomplished in than you, and that you would like to improve on._

_You do not have to master the skill_ – _it is the process of learning from each other that's important._

_Have a great fourth task!_

_oOo_

Malfoy's scrawl appeared in the book almost immediately.

_DM: And just what the hell am I meant to 'teach' the girl who knows everything?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, huge, huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazing alphabetas.
> 
> Your thoughts and comments are, as ever, loved!


	20. Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your thoughts on the last chapter! I love that you love the Ron I've written - I'm sometimes unsure how Dramione fans will react to a sympathetic Ron!

_When you gonna make up your mind / When you gonna love you as much as I do / When you gonna make up your mind / 'Cause things are gonna change so fast / All the white horses are still in bed / I tell you that I'll always want you near / You say that things change my dear._

\- Winter, Tori Amos. 

* * *

_DM: And just what the hell am I meant to ‘teach’ the girl who knows everything?_

Hermione couldn't help but smile. Only just a month ago, she would have interpreted Malfoy’s comment as scathing and denigrating. Now, she took it as a bantering jest, maybe even a backhanded compliment. Either way, for some reason, it didn’t feel marred by vitriol and bitterness like so many of his previous comments. What had changed, she wasn’t sure...well, she hadn’t been having sex with him before, that was one thing…

Even though the snow was deep and the air bitterly cold, they decided to meet outside to discuss the next task, amongst a copse of trees on the edge of the Black Lake. 

“So, any ideas on what on earth I can teach the girl who swallowed a fucking encyclopedia about Hogwarts before she even set foot here?” Malfoy asked dryly as he leaned against a willow tree, his hands deep in a winter coat. 

Hermione couldn't help smiling again, and vaguely wondered how he knew she was so well-versed in _Hogwarts: A History._

“Well – there was one thing I thought you could teach me...” she began uncertainly. Malfoy pushed himself up from the tree trunk, clearly curious. “I was wondering...you’re pretty good at Occlumency, right? I – I’ve always thought that would be a good thing to learn.” 

He raised his eyebrows, not attempting to hide his surprise. “Occlumency?” he repeated.

She nodded. 

He scoffed a laugh. “You know that means I’ll have to get inside your head? In order for you to practice? That _I’ll_ be able to see _your_ memories?” 

“Well. I thought, maybe if we had an agreement that you wouldn't go back further than three months…” 

Hermione had thought about what it would be like to have Malfoy burrowing in her mind, of course she had. And she _was_ rather dubious about the whole thing. She particularly didn’t like the thought of him coming across memories of the war that even _she_ couldn’t remember – of Malfoy Manor specifically – those memories that had split off into fragments and got lost somewhere in her mind. She would hate for Malfoy to see them when she herself didn’t know what they were. But everything she’d read purported that, if her conscious memory couldn’t remember them, then a Legilimens would not be able to see them either. 

But that was also why she’d thought of ‘the last three months’ rule – she had nothing to hide from him from that time. At least, nothing substantial. Of course, there were private memories that she would rather keep to herself, but her desire to learn Occlumency outweighed the possibility that Malfoy would uncover one of those. 

“And I thought that – well, if it gets too much, I’ll let you know – and you’ll stop,” she continued. 

He frowned at her like she was a new species of blast-ended skrewt he’d happened across. “You’d trust me? To do that?” His voice was disbelieving. 

“Yes,” she answered.

Because, as odd a concept as it was, there was a part of her that _did_ trust Malfoy to stop if he delved too deep. There was some trust already there, she supposed, as part of the task’s rules. But also, Legilimency wasn’t the same as mind reading – Malfoy would be able to see her memories, but not ‘read’ the thoughts or emotions she’d had at the time. 

He let out an incredulous huff of a laugh again and shook his head. “Fine. I’ll need to talk through the theory with you first. And you need to be prepared for it. You need to be alert and for your mind to be as clear as possible. Not tired – especially not mentally tired. The mornings are usually better for that.” 

“Okay.” She felt strangely relieved he’d agreed; she’d been anticipating that he would be much more stubborn in his objections. “And – erm – what about you? Is there anything you’d like to learn from me?” 

He pinched his lips together in the way he did when struggling to admit something. Hermione supposed that admitting you weren’t as good at something as you’d like to be could be construed as a weakness, and she knew Malfoy hated admitting to weaknesses. 

“I’d like to be able to conjure a Patronus.” The words rushed out of his mouth, as if he wanted to voice them as quickly as possible. 

Her stomach suddenly sank, heavy and sickening. “Oh, I don’t think I’m very well placed to do that – Professor Ingleton is covering them in DADA soon – she’ll be a much better teacher than me,” she found herself garbling. 

Malfoy scowled. “Well, I don't want to wait until she teaches us.” He stepped towards her. “I want bespoke lessons,” he took another step so he was distractingly close, “From you.” 

“I just don't think – isn’t there something else you’d rather learn?” His scent was invading her space, making it hard to think of the right words – of convincing reasons and excuses.

He reached his hand out and placed it gently on her waist. “No. No, there isn’t...do you not like the idea of me being able to do it?” His voice was teasing. “Want to maintain your claim as the ultimate fighter of the Dark Arts – the perfect war heroine?” 

“No! Don’t be stupid,” she protested, “I just, well – I just –” 

“Just what?” he insisted. 

“I just can’t _do_ it anymore!” She abruptly stepped away from him – away from his warmth and his comforting scent – and turned towards the Lake.

“Can’t do what?” She heard the genuine confusion in his voice. 

“Can’t conjure a Patronus!” she blurted out shrilly. And then, to demonstrate her point, she slashed her wand through the air, crying out, “Expecto Patronum!” 

She willed herself to think of her happiest memories – of her parents reading to her when she curled up in bed, of laughing with Ron and Harry on the Hogwarts Express, of opening her OWL results. But she remembered them all in monochrome, weirdly devoid of emotion, as if they weren’t _her_ memories at all – like an old museum exhibit, faded with time and from another age. 

White light emitted from her wand and shimmered precariously in the air for a few moments, before fading away. 

She avoided meeting Malfoy’s eyes, because it was as if he were witnessing a humiliation, an indignity, and the shame of it was encroaching and threatening. 

She waited, anticipating he would berate, jeer or mock her. But instead, he said in a low, grave voice, “Still better than my effort.” 

She watched as he waved his wand and cried out the incantation. She saw a spluttering of white sparks that died almost as soon as they burst from his wand. He turned to her and gave her a grim smile. “Maybe you can teach me the process, at least? Better to have conjured and lost than never to have conjured at all.” 

Her lips quirked up. “You’re paraphrasing Tennyson?” 

“Yep.” 

“Tennyson’s a Muggle.” 

“Ten points to Gryffindor.” 

She just rolled her eyes at that. There was a silence, an oddly comfortable silence, before Malfoy spoke again, his voice quiet and contemplative. “Or is this more accurate? Better to have felt happiness once than never to have felt it at all.” 

She looked away into the glimmering blackness of the Lake again, and said quietly into the twilight. “I’m not sure if that _is_ better at all.” 

* * *

“Are you definitely okay about this?” Malfoy asked for about the fiftieth time. Hermione didn’t think she'd ever seen him so unsure. 

“Yes. I trust that you’ll stop if I ask. And we agreed that you won’t go back more than three months.” 

He looked at her suspiciously, as if trying to work out whether he was being tricked in some way. “I just can’t believe you’ll trust me to do this.” 

She’d thought even more about the whole exercise since they’d first spoken, weighing up the possible risks and benefits and had come to the same conclusion she’d originally decided on. “It’s fine. I trust you.” Those particular words still felt strange to voice, when they were directed at Malfoy. But she meant them wholeheartedly. 

“Right. Well. Remember what I said: try and dampen your emotions as much as possible. Compartmentalise your thoughts, just focus on the present moment. Don’t let your mind drift.” Draco had meticulously gone through the theory with her over the last week, until they’d both felt confident enough for Hermione to actually try Occlumency. They’d come to their spot by the Lake again; they both admitted that if they met somewhere private inside the castle, they would get distracted with...other pursuits...which they’d been continuing to partake in since the start of term. “The more raw, emotional memories are easily given up to the Legilimens.” 

“Right,” she said, and attempted to prepare her mind so it could defend itself against the incoming onslaught. 

Malfoy brought his wand up to her temple and tentatively muttered an incantation. 

It didn’t hurt as much as she thought it would. She had expected some kind of piercing, shudder-inducing pain, but it just felt like cold fingers rifling through her mind. She wondered if Malfoy was being unnecessarily gentle. And with that thought, came a memory of her reading his letter in bed at night: his words on the parchment, then the rustle of her bedsheets as she moved and adjusted herself, the letter slipping from her hands as she started to let out quiet moans. 

She knew that Malfoy could see it too, and refused to feel too embarrassed – she’d already admitted to him that she’d done what he was now witnessing. She felt him rapidly withdraw from her mind. 

He looked at her, his lips parted and cheeks flushed. “Fuck, Granger. What are you trying to do to me?” 

He crushed his lips to hers and backed her into a tree behind her. After a prolonged kiss, she pulled away. “We’re meant to be doing the task,” she protested through an amused smile. 

“Right. Yeah. Sure.” Malfoy stood up straighter and pointed his wand at her temple again. 

“Ready?” 

“Yes.” 

They tried again. And again. And often Malfoy would get in – get hold of a memory of something recent, normally involving him. He balked in disconcernation as he happened on images of them having sex from Hermione’s point of view, as he pounded into her from above. ”Merlin, that was weird. Like I was fucking myself,” he commented when he had to stop and withdraw again, causing Hermione to chuckle in amusement. 

But he couldn’t get any further than that; it was much easier to shut her memories away from him than she’d anticipated. 

“Good. That's good. You’re good at this,” he remarked, after an hour or so of practise. Then, as if to himself. “Not surprising really…” 

“Isn’t it?” 

He gave her a thoughtful look, as if unsure whether to continue. “Well...as you know, people who can shut away their emotions, compartmentalise, people whose emotions are dampened, are generally better at this.” 

“You think my emotions are dampened? Why would you think that?” 

His eyes shifted to somewhere beyond her. “I don't know – never mind.” 

“No. Tell me what you mean,” Hermione persisted. 

A look of resignation came over his face. “Your eyes, Granger,” he said solemnly. “There’s hardly any light behind them. Maybe other people haven’t noticed, but I certainly have – it’s like someone’s nox’ed your soul. I’m not stupid. You know I’ve been in therapy with Alethea for longer than you have – I know what trauma can do to emotions.” 

Malfoy looked grim, like he hadn't wanted to admit what he’d just voiced. 

She stilled, taking in his words. She thought of the constant sense she had of seeing and feeling the world through a glass wall, of the relentless numbness, of Ron’s words about seeming distant, and Alethea’s explanations about dissociation. She hadn't realised that Malfoy would have noticed all of that too – she was only just starting to understand it herself. 

“Oh,” was all she managed. 

She suddenly felt very exposed – as if Malfoy had discovered a shameful secret about her. She wanted to get away from him, back to her dorm and snuggle with Nox, who had certainly become more friendly since Christmas. It had felt good, earning the cat’s trust and being able to look after him. 

But she’d promised she’d stay and attempt to teach Malfoy the Patronus charm. So she changed the subject and started to instruct Malfoy on how to grasp onto his happiest memories, of connecting with the joy of those memories deep in the marrow of his bones, and allowing that to flow through him whilst keeping his focus on nothing but the raw emotion of it. 

In a way, she realised the process of conjuring a Patronus was quite the opposite of Occlumency. 

Over the next week, he got better – the spluttering of white light turned into a shimmer, then a violent burst which hovered for a second before fading to nothing. It wouldn’t have been strong enough to keep away a dementor, but it was progress. 

“Well done,” Hermione would always encourage and Draco would sneer, dissatisfied and disgruntled with himself. 

The deadline for the task came and went. Hermione essentially mastered Occlumency – she was able to build mental walls strong enough to keep Draco from her memories. But neither of them were able to fully conjure a Patronus. 

Hermione was left unsettled by how quickly she’d learnt Occlumency; Malfoy’s words about ‘dampened emotions’ would not leave her. Which is probably why she found herself discussing it with Alethea after the deadline for the task had passed. 

“And then Malfoy said...he said something about the reason why I learnt Occlumency so well was because my emotions are dulled, as if –” Hermione paused, thinking of Malfoy’s phrase ‘as if someone’s nox’ed your soul’. “As if I’m detached from them.”

Alethea nodded. “And from what we’ve discussed so far in our sessions, what sense do you make of that?” 

If Hermione were being honest with herself, she had always known the answer to that question. “I suppose it's a consequence of my dissociation. But – we’ve worked so hard on that.” 

They had. They’d gone over many painful memories in an attempt to integrate them into Hermione’s internal ‘narrative’, into the story of who she was and what had happened to her.

“The work we’ve done and need to continue to do is about association and integration,” Alethea had explained more than once during their previous sessions. “Making a horrendous event that overwhelmed you in the past into a memory of something that happened a long time ago. To do that, we need language. Without language and context, your awareness is limited to ‘I’m scared’. Without that, you'll stay in a state of numbness, with the occasional burst of fear – which might manifest in aggression – when something triggers a memory and sends you back into the past.”*

So, in the months since September, they had worked through the process of integrating her traumatic memories into a verbal narrative; the process had triggered anxiety but to a tolerable degree – using the strategies she’d learnt, she’d been able to manage it. As a result, her mind was not in constant defense and avoidance mode, and she’d noticed a shift over the last few weeks – noticed that the numbness did occasionally lift, that things didn’t seem so foggy, that there were moments when the world was full of colour again. 

But sometimes that colour felt too saturated, too garish, and she’d been tempted to retreat again. 

“Hmm- hmm,” Alethea said now. “Yes, as you know, dissociation is our mind’s way of protecting us from painful, upsetting memories. But in cutting off from them, we also cut off from our happy, pleasant, soothing memories too, which is probably why you’re finding it hard to conjure a Patronus as well. And yes, you’re right, you’ve definitely worked hard on the dissociation, Hermione. You’ve done really well, and I know how hard it’s been for you. But I’m aware there’s one event – one event that seems particularly significant – that we still haven’t really talked about.” 

Hermione fiddled with the end of her bandage. She had continued to successfully manage to leave the wound alone, and it was healing up into a scar now – the bright red of the letters drying out to a lightish pink. 

“Yes. Yes, I suppose,” she mumbled. 

“And what event do you think that is?” Alethea persisted. She always did this – gently nudged Hermione out of the avoidance she was partaking in. 

Hermione swallowed, the sensation painful due to the dryness of her throat. “Malfoy Manor,” she rasped out. 

“So...maybe we need to start thinking about that a bit more, Hermione? Do you think?” Alethea’s question was gentle; hopeful. 

Hermione’s wound was burning to be touched again – she wished for the distraction of it – or maybe Malfoy’s kisses and touch instead...maybe she could find him after this session... 

“Okay,” she said, her voice sounding small, but determined nonetheless. 

* * *

The winter weeks went by. The snow was relentless, covering the grounds in permanent, sparkling white. Only a few hardy snowdrop blossoms interrupted the vast expanse of it, as they stubbornly peaked their heads up towards the sun. The students huddled inside near fireplaces, encased in jumpers and scarfs, away from the corridors’ hostile drafts. All except the quidditch fanatics, of course. 

Malfoy would often find Hermione after his practices; she’d refuse to let him touch her with such cold hands, so he’d quickly warm them up with a heating charm before delving them under her jumper and shirt. 

They knew each other so well by then – well, knew each other's _bodies_ so well – but they still did not talk about what they were doing, about what it meant, and their clandestine meetings were still kept a secret from anyone but them. Hermione was aware that the idea of ‘getting it out of their system’ was futile now.

January melted into February, and Professor Ingleton announced in their DADA class that they would be covering the Cruciatus Curse for the next few lessons. Hermione’s stomach turned at the news and, as she sat in the unerring semicircle of chairs, she felt her legs tense, as if getting ready to run. She immediately began practising relaxation and grounding techniques to stop herself from bolting from the room. 

To her surprise, many of her fellow students seemed to have a similar response. The class stilled, before an uncomfortable shuffling and a resentful murmuring rippled through the room. Ingleton raised her eyebrows questioningly. 

“Do people have some opinions about the fact that we’re covering this topic?” 

There was an awkward, tense silence, which was a painful reminder of their first ever lesson with this teacher, a teacher that most of them now knew held a constant, comforting glow of compassion under a fiery and sometimes intimidating exterior. 

It was Neville who finally spoke, his voice unusually sarcastic. “I don’t think we need to go over it, Professor. The Carrows covered it pretty well last year.” 

Ingleton eyes flickered, taking this in, before her face softened. “Yes. Yes…and you know by now that I am not one to pretend that what happened in this school last year did not happen.” She lowered her head and walked slowly around in a small circle, as if thinking to herself.

Finally, she stopped and looked around at the class; she seemed slower and gentler in her movements somehow. 

“I am going to ask you all a series of questions and I kindly ask you to be as honest as possible in your responses. I think it will be for everyone's benefit,” she began. “Could everyone who, before the start of their seventh year – that is, September 1997 – was a victim of the Cruciatus Curse please raise their hand?” 

Ingleton raised her own hand, indicating she was participating in this odd poll too. 

There was a pause and Hermione could see out of the corner of her eye Harry slowly raise his arm. She flitted her eyes around, and was surprised to see Nott’s hand in the air too. Then Malfoy, who was still sitting opposite her, slowly moved his hand – it was a half-arsed attempt at raising it, was barely in the air, but it was an attempt nonetheless. He was staring steadily at the floor just beyond his desk.

“Right. Thank you for your honesty,” Ingleton said. “Now, could everyone who was a victim of the Cruciatus Curse _since_ September 1997 please raise your hand.” 

Hermione's stomach turned. She knew she needed to raise her arm but was reluctant to do so. However, to her surprise, there was a flurry of movement in the room: nearly everyone was raising their arm, everyone except Dean and another Muggle-born who hadn’t been at Hogwarts last year. It made it so much easier for Hermione to raise her hand as well, which she did. She'd known last year at Hogwarts had been awful, but was now realising that she hadn’t ever really considered the details of how and in what way her classmates had been made to suffer. 

Ingleton also had her hand in the air, as she walked slowly around the middle of the semicircle. 

“Thank you. Now, please keep your hand up if the person who was _afflicting_ you with the curse really _meant_ it,” Ingleton instructed. 

That was an easy one for Hermione – she kept her hand up in the air, along with Harry, Nott and Malfoy – but over half of the class lowered their hands. Malfoy’s gaze glided over to her, then quickly darted away.

“Hmm,” Ingleton gave an appreciative nod. “It’s interesting, isn’t it? How we know instinctively whether someone really _means_ it when they cast this particular curse?” 

“And now, please raise your hand, or keep it up, if you have cast the curse on someone else?” 

There was an uncomfortable stillness, followed by a shuffling, as Hermione lowered her arm with an ease in her heart. But she was surprised, and disconcerted, at how many people kept theirs raised in the air – nearly all those that had been at the school the year before, including Neville, Ginny, Parvati and Seamus. 

“Now, please lower your hands if you only cast that curse under duress – because you knew something worse would happen to the victim, and to you, if you did not cast it?” 

Nearly everyone lowered their hand. Everyone except Harry. She remembered the Ministry, remembered Harry’s uncontrollable, raging grief after Bellatrix had killed Sirius. She looked askance at her friend quickly, and noticed his features were set in defiance. But then she noticed that Nott’s hand was in the air too, and wondered what had happened to him to make him feel enough hate for someone to voluntarily inflict the Cruciatus Curse on them. 

Inlgeton nodded slowly. “Right.” She spoke delicately, as if there was something precarious but invisible she was trying to balance in the air between them. “Now, please keep your hand up if you cast the curse with a calm frame of mind, not in a fit of rage or panic or grief?” 

Both Harry and Nott lowered their hands. Hermione looked around and noticed that, now, all the students' hands were lowered. 

“So it seems that all of you have quite extensive experience with the Cruciatus Curse,” Ingleton surmised. “And now, one final question: who knows the best way to treat and manage the _effects_ of the curse? Or how we can best _defend_ ourselves when being subjected to it?” 

Hermione raised her hand, but she was only one of a handful of students to do so, along with Nott, Malfoy and Parvati. 

“Right. Thank you class for your honesty during that exercise… What has that all demonstrated, do you think?” 

There was a silence. Hermione grappled in her mind for the lesson that Ingleton had tried to demonstrate. The answers seemed just out of reach, and she couldn’t quite grasp them. It involved something about her fellow students’ experiences though, and Hermione was well aware that that was something she hadn’t quite engaged with all year. But now that the glass wall between her and the world was thinning, she wanted to know more – she had a sudden desire to cut a hole in that wall and step through it. 

“Well,” Ingleton continued. “One thing is that, although, as you put it Neville, the Carrows may have covered the curse fairly comprehensively last year, there was a lot that they clearly overlooked. How to defend ourselves against it and its effects, for one thing. And remember: this is _Defence_ Against the Dark Arts. 

“But more importantly: that, although it may feel that the people in this room – that people in general – are split into two groups of ‘victims’ and ‘perpetrators’, we are _all_ , in fact, _survivors_ . War is messy – there are rarely neat groups of good and evil, even though it would be very satisfying to divide our fellow humans up in such a way. Sometimes, we have little or no choice in what we have to do. Sometimes our emotions force us into actions that we later regret. And so I go back to the point made in our very first lesson. I know the late Albus Dumbledore used to say it was our ‘choices that defined us, not our abilities’. But I would go further and say it is the _intention_ with which we made those choices that matters.”

* * *

For the rest of the day, questions and curiosity swam about Hermione’s mind as she walked through the corridors and sat in lessons. She remembered all those hands in the air during her DADA lesson, she thought of all the Crucios that had been cast, all the pain that had been inflicted within the castle walls. What _had_ happened here last year? She recalled what Malfoy had told her about Seamus’ finger, and wondered what else she didn’t know. Before, she’d blocked it away, it had all felt like too much anguish to have to process, but now she felt she could bear the pain that her fellow students had had to suffer. 

That evening, instead of withdrawing to her normal window seat, or going up in her dorm, she plonked herself down by the fire where Neville, Seamus and Ginny were sitting, with Nox snuggled in her arms. The others looked at her hesitantly – it was unusual for her to join them by the fire. 

“Tell me,” she requested determinedly. her eyes flitting between the three of them. “Tell me about last year.” 

There was a silence as they looked at her in surprise, before Neville’s mouth broke out into a conspiratorial smile. 

“How long have you got?” he asked dryly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * indicates paraphrasing from the book ‘The Body Keeps the Score’ by Bessel van der Kolk. 
> 
> As always, huge, huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazing alphabetas.
> 
> Your thoughts and comments are, as ever, loved!


	21. Broken Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I realised that I've never said how long this fic will be. Well, heads up (to manage expectations!) - there's about 20 - 25k words left, which will be spread over 3 to 4 chapters and an epilogue. 😊
> 
> Warning: mention/discussion of sexual assault in this chapter.

_Words like violence / Break the silence / Come crashing in / Into my little world / Painful to me / Pierce right through me / Can't you understand? / Oh my little girl / All I ever wanted / All I ever needed / Is here in my arms / Words are very unnecessary / They can only do harm._

\- Enjoy the Silence, Depeche Mode

* * *

Hermione stayed sitting by the fire and listened as Seamus told her, from his perspective, of what had happened when Alecto Carrow severed his finger off...then she continued to listen as Neville told her of how he'd been locked in the dungeons with his Boggart for over twenty-four hours as punishment for a D.A. 'graffiti mission' that had gone wrong.

"I had a bit of a reprieve when Nott was on duty though," Neville commented.

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked.

"The I.S. were made to be on duty down in the dungeons during the night. They had wands. We didn't, of course. When Nott was on his shift, he Riddikulus'ed the Boggart away for a few hours…think it saved my sanity...he made me swear not to tell anyone though..."

"Oh…" was all Hermione could say, because her mind was turning and churning and trying to synthesise this information about Nott with the other new information she'd gleaned about him over the last few months.

"And – and what happened with Zabini? Why are there rumours about him?"

Seamus looked pained as he began to talk. "In January last year, Hagrid insisted on throwing a 'Support Harry Potter Party' in the Forbidden Forest. It was all going well for a few hours, but then we were found by the Carrows and the I.S.. We all dispersed – into the forest. I was with Lavender but – but," Seamus hesitated, his expression twisting as if he were wincing at the memory. "We got separated. Lavender was running on her own for a while, when Marcus Flint and Goyle caught up with her. They – they –"

Seamus halted and looked at Ginny helplessly.

"They disarmed her and incarcerated her to a tree trunk," Ginny took over, her voice gentle but matter-of-fact. "And they assaulted her – sexually assaulted her – or at least began too – and then Blaise happened upon them, at the same time as Hannah, Padma and I did. Blaise had his wand drawn towards them, but in that instant, he looked like he was part of it – he looked like one of the perpetrators – and I just cast a huge Bat Bogey hex at all of them." Ginny looked at Seamus guardedly. "Lavender was never able to talk about what happened, so we never really heard her story. Because Blaise was at the scene, so to speak, and because last year we didn't know what he was truly like – he seemed like a loyal I.S. member back then, you see – rumours spread amongst us that he was one of the people that assaulted Lavender.

"But Blaise's memories from his trial showed nothing incriminating – I looked it up. And from getting to know him over the last few months, I believe him when he says his intention was to help Lavender. Flint and Goyle were shits, but Blaise wasn't like them – Parvati will tell you too..." Ginny shook her head, looking uncharacteristically grave. "He _did_ take the Mark under duress, you know...any of us would have done it if we'd been in the same position as he'd been."

Seamus looked at his feet sheepishly. "I probably shouldn't have called him a rapist, back at the beginning of term. It's just...Lavender – she went through so fucking much last year, did so _much_ for this school, all to get slaughtered by that scum of a werewolf. And I was angry...so angry I didn't know what to do with it all."

Hermione remembered ranting at Malfoy at the Reconciliation Ball whilst hot tears of fury spilled down her cheeks. "Yes. I know what you mean," she said quietly.

"I think he accepts your apology, though," Ginny said to Seamus.

Seamus gave a wry smile. "Yeah."

Hermione frowned, trying to understand. "You apologised to Zabini?"

Seamus shrugged. "Yeah. Just the other day."

Ginny smiled. "I mediated," she said with a hint of pride.

Hermione took a moment to take this in. She was realising that so much had been going on without her noticing – subtle, shifting dynamics amongst her classmates, like pieces on a chessboard being moved around her.

But before she dwelt on that further, she continued to listen as her housemates told her of the 'Purification' of Hogwarts – of the Book Burning Ceremony, of being branded with their own mark when the Carrows had cut the words 'Blood traitor' into their skin, of the hope that reforming the D. given them.

She listened to them well into the night, whilst they took it in turns to stoke the fire as the moonlight shone into the Common Room. She did not shy away from any of it – on the contrary, she prodded with questions, ensuring she had clarity on events, and the reasons behind them. They talked until all their eyelids grew heavy and they all finally retired to their beds.

The next morning, a Saturday, Hermione awoke with a thirst she hadn't felt in a long time. A thirst for knowledge and understanding. The conversation with her housemates the night before had made her realise how much she didn't know – about her schoolmates and their part in the war, and what that had left them with. With the thinning of her mental glass wall, she was starting to be able to see through it with a clarity and starkness, and a dawning realisation of how important it was to understand what had happened to them. Because they had all shared these classes and hallways and hills for six years together – their story was part of her story too. And without understanding their shared past, there was no way she was going to understand their present. To understand herself.

So, as she pulled back the covers of her bed and stood under a steaming shower, she made it her mission that day to find out as much as she could. To get answers to questions her mind had asked all year, but which she had been too afraid to seek the answers to.

First, she went to find Parvati after breakfast. She was at the owlery, having just sent off some letters.

"Hi. I, erm, I just wondered if we could talk," Hermione began awkwardly, as they walked back towards the castle. "Again, I'm sorry about what I called you at the Lake Party. And now – I – I want to understand."

"Understand?" Parvati queried.

"Yes. Understand what happened with you and Zabini last year… I mean, it's probably none of my business but..." Hermione trailed off.

Parvati frowned, but it was an expression of curiosity rather than hostility. "Why?"

It was a simple question, but it didn't have a simple answer.

"I...well...I think it's important to understand, so I - I don't make assumptions and judgements...like I might have done before," Hermione tried to explain. "Like Ingleton said, it's the intentions with which we make choices that matter, and I think it's important to at least try to understand people's intentions."

They had come to an old stone bench that perched rather precariously on the brow of a hill, looking down on the valley where the Black Lake nestled, with Hagrid's hut just beyond it.

Parvati looked at Hermione thoughtfully. "Okay," she stated simply, before going to sit down on the bench. After an unsure moment, Hermione followed her.

Parvati was looking off into the distance, towards the smoke that was drifting out of Hagrid's chimney, but it didn't seem as if she was seeing it. There was a faraway look in her eyes, as if she were watching memories rather than the valley in front of them.

Then she smiled, with a hint of something like nostalgia, and started speaking. "Right back at the beginning of our seventh year, Amycus Carrow gave me a detention. It was before they'd come up with the more creative options for their punishment, and so that one was quite mild – preparing potion ingredients with Slughorn. Blaise was in detention with me, and Slughorn went off pretty early on, leaving us on our own. We think he wanted to listen to Celestina Warbeck who was live on the wireless that evening.

"But anyway, Blaise and I got accidentally locked in one of the store cupboards for a couple of hours – which was my fault, really. I messed up with the anti-locking charms on one. We ended up playing truth or dare with veritaserum. As you do. And – I feel like we really got to know each other then – as people, with the stereotypes of our houses stripped away for once. And then things got…" Parvati gave a sheepish smile. "Intimate. We ended up having quite a passionate kiss. Then, a couple of weeks later, we – the D.A. – needed to know the password for Snape's office. I knew Blaise would know it because he was one of Snape's trusted few. So I asked to meet him late one night, which he did...he said he'd tell me the password in exchange for another kiss...and I _wanted_ to kiss him – I really did – I mean, you've _seen_ him right? I swear he has some Veela in him!"

Hermione made a non-committal sound of agreement.

"And that's kind of how it all started… I know Blaise wanted to help us, genuinely, but his family was so wrapped up in V-Voldemort, there was always a risk his memories could be searched. So he couldn't be _seen_ to be helping a Blood Traitor – not outright – but it might have been forgivable for him to be seen to be _using_ a Blood Traitor, or humiliating them in some way. We came to an unspoken understanding – we'd do stuff, physical stuff, and he'd pass on valuable Death Eater information. Or even just information from the outside world we weren't privy too. Before we found out about Potterwatch, we were really isolated.

"I didn't tell anyone about our meetings except Lavender, just said I had a secret source. I was worried that the more people that knew, the more risky it was for Blaise.

"It was all very complicated – messed up – but I knew he would never have really taken advantage – never have done anything unless he thought I'd wanted to." Parvati shook her head, as if attempting to clear it. "And now...we're friends, and I think that suits both of us. Not sure anything romantic could have come from it – it was all a little too fucked up. But then things _were_ fucked up back then..."

There was a silence as Hermione took Parvati's story in, letting it settle in her mind. They'd reached the steps up to the main entrance and both came to a stop.

"Thank you for telling me all that," Hermione said gently. "I think I understand now." And really, she did. Parvati - and Zabini's actions - were understandable. They were messy and complicated, as Parvati had said, but they were also completely understandable.

Parvati gave her a warm smile, a smile Hermione hadn't seen from her in months – possibly not since sixth year.

"I'm glad you get it. So do the other Gryffindor boys now. It's taken a while, and the rumours about Blaise didn't help, but I'm glad people are finally able to understand… You coming in?"

Hermione shook her head. "I need to find Luna. I think she normally feeds the thestrals at about this time, so I'm heading to the forest."

Parvati nodded. "Okay. Well, see you around."

And with that, Parvati bounded up the steps and into the castle.

* * *

Hermione had been right – she found Luna in the thestral clearing in the forest, sitting on a fallen tree trunk next to Nott, who had a now-familiar guitar on his knee.

Luna beamed at her as she saw her and bounced to her feet. "Oh. Hello, Hermione."

Nott paused in his playing and looked up at her, giving her a cautious nod in acknowledgement.

"Hi," Hermione said awkwardly. "Erm...I wondered if we could talk?"

"Of course!" Luna said. "Would you like a seat?" She gestured towards the tree trunk.

"Oh, erm, no thanks. I wondered if just the two of us could talk? In private?"

"Oh! Yes! Let's go for a walk." Luna stood up and looked down at Nott. "I'll be back in a little while, Theo. Is that okay?"

Theo gave Luna a smile and a quick nod. Hermione could not deny the warmth of his expression when he looked at Luna. "Of course," he said.

Luna started to guide the way towards the trees and Hermione followed. Behind them, she heard Nott start to play again, a familiar tune she couldn't quite place.

Once they were out of Nott's hearing, Hermione realised she wasn't sure how to begin. "I was wondering – well, I suppose – how are you?"

"I'm good, thank you. How are you?"

"I'm okay. Yeah, fine…" Maybe she should just cut to the chase? This _was_ Luna, after all, and Luna always seemed to cut to the chase, so... "I've just been thinking lately, about how last year was for other people. I feel like I've been really wrapped up in myself, and feel like – like it's important to understand. So...I wanted to ask, but you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to – how was it for you, last year? When you got kidnapped and kept prisoner in the Malfoy cellar? I've realised we've never really spoken about it, and it must be such a big thing that's happened to you, so ..."

"Oh. No, I don't mind you asking me," Luna's words were light and lilting, but when she spoke again a hint of sadness wove through them. "Well...it was all rather horrible. The damp and the cold were some of the worst things – it was the midst of winter, after all. And of course, it was frightening, not knowing how long I'd be there for, and what they might do to me. But they mostly left me alone, and I had Ollivander for company, and Draco brought me a blanket once –"

"What?" Hermione snapped.

"Draco brought me a blanket. I'm sure he wasn't meant to. He'd charmed it so it stayed warm, which was really very lovely. He also brought me some nice food every now and again...mostly I got nothing but this awful tasteless stew thing, but Draco even brought me pudding once – sticky-toffee pudding, my favourite! And he'd occasionally come down and tell me my father was okay. That he was being left alone. Which was really the best comfort I could have had."

"Oh. Right."

Hermione was silent for several moments, thinking of this Draco Malfoy who'd smuggled objects and words of comfort down to Luna whilst she'd been held captive in his cellar. And at what price to him? Because, as Ingleton had said, they were all victims, even those boys who had been made to be perpetrators. And Malfoy had practically been a boy when he'd taken the Mark, hadn't he? Sixteen...barely a man, at least.

"I had wanted to thank him," Luna continued. "But he always avoided me, up until the Ball last term, when Theo made him speak to me. He still doesn't really like being around me, but I think it's getting better... I think maybe the shame is still too much. Which is sad, really. He has nothing to be ashamed of."

Hermione wanted to ask more about this version of Malfoy, but she needed this new information to settle first. She and Luna walked on in silence for a few moments; Hermione realised she didn't mind silences with Luna – they were some of the most comfortable she'd experienced.

As they started to walk back towards Nott, Luna spoke again. "I'm glad you're coming back, Hermione."

"Huh?"

Luna smiled calmly. "Your mind. I'm glad it's coming back to us."

But before Hermione could respond, she became distracted by the words of a song that drifted across the clearing towards them.

" _When you were here before…couldn't look you in the eye…you're just like an angel…your skin makes me cry…_ "

As the two girls approached Nott, he stopped singing and looked up at Hermione, his eyes glinting shrewdly.

'How're you getting on with putting that fire out, Granger?" he asked, and she remembered the conversation they'd had the last time they'd both been in this same clearing.

Hermione opened her mouth to speak but realised she had no words of retort, so closed it again. Nott merely gave a small, knowing smile before starting to sing again.

" _You float like a feather…in a beautiful world…and I wish I was special…so fuckin' special…_ "

* * *

There was another person that Hermione wanted to speak to. She wasn't hard to find because, over the last couple of months, Hermione had spent enough time with her to learn nearly all of her routine.

"Hi, Pansy," Hermione said as she joined the girl on a small stone bench behind the greenhouses – a regular students' smoking spot.

Pansy flicked the ash from her cigarette to the ground and said chirpily, "Hey you! How're you?"

"I'm good. I think…" Hermione replied.

Pansy gave a slow nod before taking a leisurely drag on her cigarette. "What brings you here? You normally hate being around me when I'm smoking."

Hermione smiled wryly. "I suppose I've been wondering… I – I just wanted to ask you a few things…"

Pansy turned her head towards her, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. "I don't like the sound of that. Ask me what?"

"Well...I suppose I've been wondering what it was like at Hogwarts last year? What it was like for _you,_ specifically?"

Pansy lip curled up, as if in disgust. "Why on earth would you want to know that?"

Hermione was used to Pansy's constant acerbic disdain and had stopped taking it personally long ago.

"Well, Ingleton's lesson yesterday just made me think about what it must have been like for you – and everyone else – being here last year. I've been a bit... _self-absorbed_ since I've come back this year, a bit in-my-own-head and I suppose I'm starting to...get out of my head a bit."

Pansy's expression softened slightly, although she still looked like she'd just eaten something particularly sour. "Urgh. Is this when we're meant to have some kind of heart to heart conversation? Cos I don't really do those. They make me feel ill."

Hermione couldn't help but grin in amusement. She shrugged. "It doesn't have to be deep and meaningful. I just wondered how it might have felt, being here then…"

"How it might have felt?" Pansy echoed.

"Yes," Hermione confirmed.

Pansy slowly blew smoke out of her mouth, looking straight ahead of her at the grimy windows of a greenhouse. "It felt fucking terrifying," she stated matter-of-factly. Then her head snapped towards Hermione, as if assessing her reaction. It hadn't been what Hermione was expecting but she tried to imitate Alethea – to look just the right mix of accepting and compassionate – and hoped Pansy would continue.

"Fucking terrifying," Pansy repeated, looking back towards the dirt-streaked glass. "Even before the start of seventh year, I'd heard – and seen – a lot of shit that crazy fucking wizard had been responsible for. I'd seen my boyfriend fall apart. He never told me about what he'd been tasked to do, but you hear things...my family was very much wrapped up in that Death Eater circle, even though neither of them took the Mark. I'd had family members, family friends go missing… but I'd learnt not to ask too many questions. I was scared – really scared for my friends. They're all I've ever had. And that time in the Great Hall, before the Battle, I was terrified. The words rushed out before I could stop them - to grab Potter and hand him over. I didn't want Potter to die, of course I didn't, but I didn't want so many others to die either. It was instinctive. Stupid. Selfish probably, too."

Oddly, maybe because she'd so recently been talking to Luna, an image came into Hermione's mind – of Xenophilius Lovegood, his face contorted in fear as he told her of how Death Eater's had taken his daughter away. She thought of how Xenophilius had sacrificed three people for his daughter, and no one kept condemning him for that. But there had been hundreds of people in the Great Hall the night that Pansy tried to hand Harry over, tried to hand over one person in an effort to save hundreds.

"That's not selfish. Not really. You wanted the people you cared about to be okay. That's about love, isn't it?"

Pansy looked at her warily. "Are you trying to Hufflepuff-erise me or something?"

Hermione chuckled. "I don't quite know what that means, Pansy, so I don't think so."

"Humph." Pansy turned back towards the greenhouse, lifting her cigarette to her mouth once more.

"And well – well, I was wondering about me?" Hermione asked.

Pansy raised her eyebrows inquisitively. "You?"

"Yeah – I've been wondering why you've been so friendly with me this year? I'm not stupid, Pansy. You treated me with disdain for six years and then, since the beginning of our eighth year, you've wanted to be best buddies…"

Pansy took another slow exhale of smoke, before flicking the cigarette end to the floor, and treading it into the ground. Her features twisted, as if she were thinking. "Thought you said this wasn't going to turn into a nauseating heart-to-heart?"

"Well. It doesn't have to," Hermione shrugged, and continued gently. "I just asked a question, and you can choose to answer it or not."

Pansy looked at her, her expression resigned. "Okay. If I'm totally honest, _I_ don't even quite know myself why I went out my way to befriend you. There's a part of me – a cynical part – that was probably doing what my parents had asked of me – to befriend the people that had risen to the top of the social hierarchy after the war. My parents are notorious social networkers. Leeches. Sycophants…and they've been training me to be something similar." Pansy shuddered. "But then I also felt for you – when I saw your arm bleeding at the Lake Party, and saw what a state you were in then. I've been there myself, you see. Lost and hurting. The world needs strong, good, brave women, and I thought – think – you're one of those women, Hermione.

"So I really didn't want you losing your shit because, after everything that's happened, that would suck. And then...we started hanging out, and to my surprise I've actually started to like you," Pansy shrugged. "I don't expect you to believe it but...I don't think I ever really _disliked_ you. My bitchiness was probably due to the fact my ex-boyfriend couldn't seem to shut up about you."

"What? Your ex-boyfriend – what?"

Pansy turned to her and smiled knowingly. "Draco," she stated. "He was always moaning about you in some way or another – the way you'd answered a question in class, cast a particular spell, even your hair, for fuck's sake."

"He did? Moan about me so much?"

"Yep."

"Well...he made no secret of his dislike for me."

But then Hermione thought of what Nott had said: of the difference between love and hate, and love and indifference, of the burning fires…

"Hmm..." Pansy let the sound linger in the air for a minute. Then she broke the contemplative mood by turning to her and exclaiming in a bright tone, "But! You both seemed to have got over that now, don't you? Thank _god_...wish you'd both get over yourselves a bit though. The secret, tense pining that exudes from Draco is starting to do all of our heads in."

"What?" Hermione's heart stuttered.

"Give up the pretense, Hermione. Theo, Blaise and I have known Draco since we were _six_. We can tell if he's fucking someone, especially if it's over periods of weeks and in the confines of this castle."

"Oh, well – I don't – I think –"

"Don't worry, Hermione. We'll keep your secret. Just – be careful, yeah?"

"What d'you mean?"

Pansy looked at her, eyes sharp and shrewd. "Theo told me he talked to you about how intense Draco can feel for someone. Well, it's not a lie. I've been on the receiving end of it myself."

"But...but I don't think that applies to me…"

"Oh dear..." Pansy's tone was somewhat pitying. "You have a lot to learn, my friend. Just don't fucking hurt him. That's all we ask." She stubbed out her cigarette on the stone bench, the gesture hard and resolute. "Wanna go and try and do that Charms homework together? There's only so much deep and meaningful I can take and I've reached my quota today."

"I – erm – okay," Hermione agreed, relieved that Pansy had changed the subject.

But she didn't know if she would be able to focus on her Charms homework – all that she had learnt in the last few hours was whirling chaotically and confusingly around her mind.

* * *

A week or so later, Hermione was lying in bed with Nox curled at her feet, when her Binding Book heated up once more. She opened it and read the new script that had appeared in it:

_Your Fourth Task_

_As you should be aware, this will be your penultimate task as the Therapeutic Matching Project is due to come to an end by the end of the spring term._

_Your fourth task is to_ _**make something together** _ _. This can be any material thing that you can reasonably make within the time frame for the task, which is three weeks._

_Have fun!_

Hermione waited, expecting more detailed instructions, but after a minute or so nothing had appeared. The Book was being unusually brief.

_HG: Can you please clarify?_ she wrote _. Can we make anything? A dress? A potion?_

_DM: Babies?_ Malfoy's scrawl interrupted her own.

Urgh, he was in one of his not-taking-anything-seriously moods, Hermione thought, tugging agitatedly on her plait.

_DM: JOKE. That was a joke, Granger, before you start pulling your disastrous hair out._

She immediately lowered her hand from her plait. Did the book have visibility charms too? No, she was just being paranoid.

_Make something material that you will be able to complete in your allotted time together_ – the Book's typeface appeared – _So a bag and a potion are both possibilities, yes. It will take a minimum of nine months to make a human baby, although that is somewhat debatable depending on how one defines 'baby'. But I digress. Either way, 'making babies' is outside the remit of this exercise._

There was a moment or so when the page remained blank, until Malfoy's scrawl appeared again:

_DM: Seems like you're not the only one who can't take a joke Granger._

Hermione smiled to herself, and contemplated whether and how to respond to Malfoy, but she realised that her eyelids felt particularly heavy and found herself letting out a huge yawn. She put the book away in her drawer and reached habitually for her sleeping draught, but then paused as her hand hovered over the vial. She felt a sense of restfulness she hadn't felt in a long time, and wondered if maybe she didn't need the sleeping potion that night.

So instead, she gently shut her bedside drawer, rolled over and snuggled into her covers. As she felt Nox readjust himself at her feet, his body warm and heavy as he draped himself over her ankles, she found herself drifting into a deep and steady sleep.

* * *

The panic attack took Hermione by surprise. It happened towards the end of February, and in a Potions class, of all places.

She'd always thought, if she _were_ to have one at school, it would be in DADA. Or maybe Duelling Club. She'd had a few at the beginning of last summer, and had been expecting to have more when she'd returned to school. But Alethea said that it was less likely she would have them if her mind was 'shut down' and avoidant of all emotion. She had warned her recently though, that now Hermione was opening herself up to more painful memories, there was a risk her anxiety might increase in the short term, and with that could come a higher risk of panic attacks.

During Potions class, Harry must have added something incorrect to his cauldron because a jet of green light and smoke burst from it – so much like the green of the Killing Curse. At the same time Padma, who was working next to her, cut her finger whilst chopping ingredients. The wound was deep and blood gushed heavily from it. The metallic smell of it hit Hermione's nose just as the green light flew past her peripheral vision and –

– _and there's so much blood, so much blood seeping from the wound in Fred's skull, and as they lift the rubble off his legs she nearly vomits as she sees his left leg is no longer attached to his body. Ginny is making incoherent noises of protest behind her, mumbling something Hermione doesn't understand about how it's her 'Mum's Boggart', and there's a flash of green light that just skims her ear and cries and yells and Hermione is running, running through the halls of Hogwarts, jumping over fallen masonry, and she hears someone calling her name behind her_ –

"Granger!"

_Only enemies call her by her surname. She rounds a corner, hurries into a storeroom and collapses to the floor._ _Collapses on the hard wooden floorboards as the red light of a Crucio blinds her_ –

"Granger, come back to me, come back to me!" someone's calling –

_But the curse is making her bones feel on fire and her blood feel like boiling acid in her veins, and her whole body's shaking from it_ –

Someone's shaking her by the shoulders. "Granger, it's February 1999. You're safe. The war's over. Tom Riddle's dead," _a distant voice is saying which doesn't make sense because it feels like her skin is being peeled off with a red-hot knife and she's crying out with the pain of it_ –

And then there's suddenly lips on hers, gentle and tender –

And she's sitting on the floor of a dusty storeroom in Hogwarts and she immediately knows that the war ended ten months ago.

And Draco Malfoy was crouched in front of her, kissing her.

Instinctively, she forcefully shoved him off. "What the fuck are you doing?!"

He hastily moved away from her, scrambled backwards across the floor and sat back against the shelves, his legs stretched out in front of him. There was concern on his face but his eyes were guarded.

"Helping you forget," he said quietly. Simply.

The images from her flashbacks were still skittering around the edges of her mind. But she wanted them completely gone and she knew he was right – she'd said it herself, more than once – he _did_ help her forget.

Which was why she practically lunged towards him, straddling him and pushing her lips onto his. He groaned quietly, his lips parting slightly, but she could tell that he was purposely making this kiss tender and slow, not the hurried passion she wanted. She ran a hand down his chest, but when she reached between his legs, he pulled away.

"Granger – Granger, no – you've just had a terror-turn. This is fucked up –"

Hermione stopped his words by pressing her lips to his again. She could feel how much he wanted it too, could feel him hard beneath her, and an almost aching need had grown in her and she was desperate for those memories to be well and truly gone. But then he moved back from her again, holding her still by the waist.

"No, no, not like this Herm – Granger," he objected, sounding tormented. She stilled and their eyes locked. He looked at her steadfastly.

Doubt niggled at her mind. He'd never been like this before, so hesitant. Shame washed over her in a wave. She scrambled to her feet. "You – you don't want to?"

"What? Don't be stupid," his voice was characteristically scathing, and he rose to his feet to. "I want you. I _always_ want you. But not like this. You've just had a terror-turn."

But didn't he understand that that was exactly _why_ she wanted him? "I'm fine now," she said instead, leaning forward to kiss him again.

He jerked his head backwards. "No. This – this is just," he shook his head, his words clearly failing him. Then he asked sadly, his face grave, "How long do you think you can keep doing this?"

"Doing what?" she asked, her stomach turning nauseatingly in anticipation of the answer.

He shook his head regretfully. "How long do you think you can keep _fucking_ the pain away, Granger?" he said sorrowfully, before turning and leaving her alone in the dust of the cupboard.

* * *

Malfoy's words echoed in her mind for the next two weeks. Previously, they hadn't gone more than two days without seeing each other, but now he wasn't even messaging her in their Books, except to arrange a date for the fourth task, only a few days before the deadline. And even then, there was no discussion of _what_ they would do for their task, just a date. She tried to meet with him, tried to speak to him, but he didn't reply to her messages, and seemed to avoid her when she saw him about the school.

Harry and Ginny badgered her about what had happened in her Potions class – all Harry had seen was her bolting from the room and then Malfoy quickly following after her. Harry had followed too, but had obviously gone the wrong way as he hadn't found either of them. Hermione just dismissed her friends' concern though, she didn't want anyone making a fuss. And anyway, she was fine now.

Fine. Except she couldn't stop thinking about what Malfoy had said... _How long do you think you can keep fucking the pain away, Granger?..._ She wondered whether he thought she was just using him as a distraction from her own mental suffering...and was she? Maybe she had been in the beginning, but now...she wasn't sure...

It all made her try extra hard in her sessions with Alethea. Because Malfoy was right, she conceded, she couldn't keeping 'fucking the pain away'. She needed to be able to manage it – to face it. So slowly, delicately, Alethea and her went through what she could remember of Malfoy Manor. She reached the edge of panic on some occasions during their sessions, but managed to calm herself before it tipped over into an attack.

Finally, she was able to tell the story of what had happened out loud – about how they'd been caught by snatchers, about the fracas with the Sword and how the boys had got hauled off to the Malfoy cellar. She was able to remember the horror, the overwhelming fear, and how she crumpled to her knees with the first of Bellatrix's Crucios. But after that, all she could remember were fragments: a burning pain, warm blood dripping down her arm, a malicious laugh, the inexplicable taste of bile, the smell of ammonia, the gleam of light bouncing off glass...

"And then, the next thing I remember clearly is waking up on something soft," Hermione said, finishing the story aloud for about the third time. Alethea always wanted her to finish at the time when she'd started to feel safe again. "I open my eyes, and I'm in a sitting room, lying on a sofa, somewhere we've not been before, and Ron is suddenly by my side, explaining that we're in Shell Cottage and that I'm safe, that Harry's safe...it takes me some days to recover...I sleep a lot...but after a few days, I'm feeling physically better, and am feeling safe again."

Alethea was nodding and smiling encouragingly. "Great. Well done. How did it feel, telling it that time?"

"Okay. I was still feeling a bit anxious, but definitely able to contain it."

"That's great. That's great, Hermione. Think about how things were when we first met – you couldn't even think about it."

Hermione gave a strained smile. "I know, it is good. But the gaps in my memory still make me nervous. Like, what if something else triggers a panic? Something I'm not aware of – because – because I can't remember it, and so don't realise it's a trigger?"

"That is a possibility...but you're much more likely to be able to manage that now."

Hermione stared at the rug between their chairs. It _was_ Persian, after all – she'd asked Alethea about it once. "Yes. I suppose. It just bothers me. That there are so many gaps of that evening, so much I don't know about what happened to me."

"As we've talked about before, memory gaps are really common with trauma memories and one does not need to remember everything in order to get over the trauma and move on. Just acknowledging that there are gaps and being okay with that is fine."

"But I don't know if I _can_ be okay with that. It's a bit like with everything else, I suppose – I need to _know_. It's like the broken pieces of a vase. Or the pieces of a picture. Even if I could fit them together, it doesn't matter because there's still pieces missing, so I still don't know what the picture would be, or wouldn't be able to use the vase. And I _want_ to know what that picture is, even if it's terrifying or ugly –" Hermione broke off.

There was a pause as Alethea looked at her thoughtfully.

"Well, if it's something that's so important to you, there are ways that you _can_ know. Ways that we can find out the details, and add them to your narrative."

Hermione raised her eyes to look at Alethea, frowning. "How? How can we know?"

"Well, there were several people in the drawing room that evening, weren't there? One of whom is still alive, who witnessed it all, and is a student at this very school. Maybe he can join us for a session of therapy, to help us know what happened that day?"

"Who?" Hermione asked, although, with a creeping sense of foreboding, she was sure she already knew the answer.

"Draco?" Alethea continued. "Draco Malfoy? Maybe he can help us fill in the gaps? Maybe he can help you fit the broken pieces back together, Hermione?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazingly encouraging alphabetas.
> 
> Your thoughts and feedback are cherished and treasured!


	22. Atonement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Warning: dark themes are mentioned and alluded to in this chapter, including torture and rape.
> 
> Hold onto your hats friends, this chapter's a biggie! 😁

_I want to hold the hand inside you / I want to take the breath that's true / I look to you and I see nothing / I look to you to see the truth / You live your life, you go in shadows / You'll come apart and you'll go black / Some kind of night into your darkness / Colours your eyes with what's not there / Fade into you / Strange you never knew / Fade into you / I think it's strange you never knew_

\- Mazzy Star, Fade into You

* * *

Malfoy finally messaged Hermione, two days before the deadline for the fourth task, suggesting they meet at the entrance to the kitchens at eleven at night to carry it out. She was so relieved to hear from him after nearly two weeks of silence, she didn't question it, didn't ask for more details about what he had in mind, and just replied to say that she would see him there.

She wrapped her robes more tightly about her as she made her way down the stairs to the kitchens. Although the days were getting milder, it was still chilly this late at night, especially in the basement corridors.

Malfoy was waiting for her at the entrance to the kitchens. He gave her a polite smile and greeted her with a neutral "Hi", before knocking on the small, arched wooden door. Hermione assumed that he was going to ignore what had happened in the dusty store cupboard after her panic attack, and she thought that maybe it would be simpler to go along with that. For now, at least.

The door was opened by an amiable house elf, who greeted Malfoy with a short bow before hobbling away out of the kitchen and towards the elves' sleeping quarters.

"Did you bribe the house elves to let us in?" Hermione asked suspiciously.

"Nope. They were more than happy for me to make use of the kitchen without bribes. They consider me their friend, you see." Malfoy strode towards the enormous hearth and cast an Incendio, causing the fireplace to burst into bright orange flames.

"Their friend?"

"Yep. Spent a lot of time nipping in here and getting food over the years," Malfoy started to sort out various equipment and crockery on one of the vast workbenches – measuring scales, mixing bowls, a cake tin. "That's the advantage of our common room being so close. Not as close as the Hufflepuffs, but still."

"Right." Hermione came up alongside him. "And what are we making?"

Malfoy turned and grinned at her. "Your favourite. Chocolate cake."

She couldn't help but smile. "You remembered?"

"Of course I remembered!"

"And erm...how do you know how to do this?" she asked sceptically, eyeing the ingredients that Malfoy was pulling out of a bag: sugar, flour, eggs, delicious-looking dark chocolate...

"Well...the task _did_ instruct that we do this together, so I was very much hoping for your help," Malfoy said uncertainly, scrambling about in his pocket for something. "Where is…? Oh, here we go." He pulled out a piece of parchment, unfolded it and placed it on the bench between them.

 _Cissa's Luxury Chocolate Cake,_ Hermione read at the top of the parchment.

"Your mum's recipe?"

"Hmm-mm," he confirmed, holding the eggs up in turn and narrowing his eyes as if inspecting them, before placing them on the workbench and moving them about into two groups. "Do you think she meant to 'separate the eggs' by size or colour, or something else? Cos they all look the same to me."

Hermione couldn't help let a giggle escape her. "It means separate the _whites_ of the eggs from the yolk inside. Here. Shall I show you?"

Malfoy looked relieved. "Okay." Hermione took the bowl and cracked an egg, separating its insides as her mum had shown her many times in the past. "I'm not the best at it but that will do. Want to try?"

"Erm, maybe you do those and I'll weigh out the flour and sugar. I can handle that. It's like weighing out potion ingredients, right?"

"Right."

They worked together in silence for a few moments, their arms occasionally brushing against each other, which was really rather distracting for Hermione – she had desperately missed and craved Malfoy's touch over the last two weeks.

"Good work, Granger," Malfoy said, nodding approvingly at the separated eggs, before frowning down at his mother's instructions again.

"How the hell are you meant to _fold_ in the eggs? They're _liquid_? Does this involve a charm or something?

Hermione grinned again, finding Malfoy's culinary ignorance quite endearing.

"It just means do this instead of stirring," she said, demonstrating. "It means the consistency of the cake will be lighter and fluffier."

"Right." Malfoy nodded, then said a little sulkily. "But I learnt a specific baking charm for this, a stirring one."

"Oh. I don't think you'd use that for this recipe." He looked disheartened. "Sorry. Maybe we – you can make something else one day and use it for that."

"Maybe," Malfoy said, unconvinced.

"Bet this isn't as good as my dad's. He makes – made – the best chocolate cake," Hermione commented, proceeding to pour the cake mixture into the tin that Malfoy had brought.

Malfoy's eyes flickered to her. There was something hesitant about his expression. "You said – on the night of the Ball – you said you'd obliviated their memories? Your parents'?"

Hermione's heart skipped at the question, but she found that, actually, she had no qualms discussing her parents with Malfoy. Not anymore.

"Yes. I thought that would be best, to keep them safe," she explained as Malfoy took the now full cake tin and carried it to the huge aga that stood to the left of the fireplace. She followed him absent-mindedly. "Along with giving them a strong inclination to go and live halfway round the world."

He opened one of the aga doors with one hand, and turned to her before placing the tin in the oven, looking at her thoughtfully. "That must have been hard."

She shrugged. "No harder than a lot of other things we – people had to do last year."

Malfoy's expression was closed, difficult to read. "Hmm," was all he said before turning, bending down and placing the tin into the oven. "Should take about twenty minutes," he said, before closing the door with finality.

* * *

About an hour later, Hermione was sitting in front of the fire beside Malfoy, two plates smeared with the remnants of chocolate cake discarded by their sides. The cake hadn't been as good as her dad's but it had tasted rather lovely nonetheless.

They had proceeded to make small talk whilst the cake had been baking. Then they'd mostly been silent whilst they'd munched down a slice of it. Now Hermione felt she had to voice what had been hanging in the air between them ever since they'd met a couple of hours before.

"So. You're not cross with me anymore?" she began rather clumsily.

Malfoy looked at her, bemused. "Cross?"

"About what happened in the store cupboard, after I had my panic attack?"

He gave her a half smile. "You mean about you lunging at me and wanting to rip my clothes off? I don't think I'd ever be cross about that."

She couldn't help but grin. Months ago she would have thought he was trying to embarrass her with his words; now, she just found him amusing.

"But you _were_. Cross with me when I did that," she insisted.

He frowned, and looked into the flames of the fire.

"I don't know, Granger. It's like you said at the Reconciliation Ball. It's all a bit fucked up and sometimes I'm just not sure…"

She couldn't help but reach out and place a hand on his thigh, her fingers gently stroking the rough cotton of his trousers. He stilled and looked down at her hand, but otherwise didn't move.

"You think I'm using – have used – you? To try and feel better about stuff…?" she stammered.

He shrugged and continued to gaze into the fire's flames. "You said it yourself: 'I help you forget'".

There was a pressing silence, the crackling of the fire was the only sound.

Instinctively, Hermione started moving, slowly shifting her body to face him. He was quiet and merely watched her as, with deliberate, unhurried movements, she put her arms around his shoulders for balance and straddled him where he sat. His eyes glided slowly up and down her body, before slocking her gaze with his, not objecting, but not embracing her changing position either.

She looked down, biting her lip and fiddling with the hem of his jumper, thinking about how to put her feelings into words. She wanted to choose them carefully. He deserved the truth.

"I suppose that's how I _did_ feel, at the beginning, when we started doing this. It wasn't a conscious choice really – it just felt good to be with you like that, and it was just a blessed relief that for that time, when we were together, I'd – I'd _feel_ something again, something good, and forget about the dark memories that seemed to always follow me around like a shadow… But now, now when I'm with you...I think…" She chanced a glance up at him. His expression was one of puzzlement, but his eyes weren't hostile. The light in them was welcoming enough for her to lean forwards and place a gentle kiss on his lips. He didn't respond at first, but then she felt his lips move ever-so-slightly. It was a barely-there kiss, but it was enough. "Now, I think it's about something else…"

"What? It's about what?" His words were rasped out in a whisper, and she couldn't help but notice the rare hopefulness in his eyes.

"I – I'm not sure," she replied honestly. "But anyway, aren't _you_ just using _me_ too?"

He delicately stroked a strand of hair away from her face, his eyes burrowing into hers as if searching for something. "I – I'm not sure that was ever what this was about for me..." He leaned towards and kissed her firmly.

She wasn't quite sure if she wanted to unravel his words further. That way, danger seemed to lie. So instead she kissed him back. A long, deep kiss. They hadn't quite kissed like that before, that slow and deliberate. For once, they weren't hurrying to get to a place of release, and she wasn't rushing to run away from the demons in her mind. She was with him for the sake of being with him: for the calmness that came from looking into the depths of his irises, for the tingles of pleasure she felt at the touch of his skin.

He undressed her slowly, pausing every now and then to stroke her bare skin – tracing a finger down her arm, then the dips and curves of her waist and stomach, encasing her thighs with his palms… At first she wanted to hurry a little – it was almost habitual to be that way with him – but she forced herself to match his tempo as she unbuttoned his shirt with trembling hands, and he moved her so she was lying on her back on the rug by the hearth, with him leaning over her.

The heat from the fire, and the feel of his fingers – sweeping down to bury themselves in the wet softness between her legs – made her body flush and her muscles loose and slack. She relaxed back into the rug, as he dipped his fingers in and out of her, his eyes wandering up and down her body as she squirmed and whimpered under him.

His gaze was intense. She'd never felt the object of such undivided attention by anyone before, as if she were precious, rare, special. She didn't know what that look meant but she refused to run from it like she might have done before – by grabbing hold of his hardening cock and starting to pump it, for instance, so they'd both get lost in seeking his release. Instead, she managed to hold his gaze, and return his delicate, exploratory touches. She allowed him to move her legs and wrap them around his waist, as his fingers continued to sink in and out of her and an exquisite tension built in her core, a tension her body was too relaxed to fight for long. Her cry as she came was loud in the quiet of the kitchen, her legs shuddering involuntarily where they encased his waist.

She saw his lips curl up – a small smile of triumph – before he leant down and kissed her, deep and warm and slow again. He positioned himself so he was right at her entrance and fixed his gaze on her, asking permission. She nodded – agreeing – _wanting_. Then he thrust forward and filled her in one delicious movement, letting out a primal grunt as he did so. She gasped his name as he moved methodically, torturously slowly inside her, tightened her legs around his waist and scratched her nails down his back. She arched into the touch of him, tightening her hold on his shoulders and pulling him closer. Her body craved him. It wanted more. It always, always wanted more of him...

* * *

A little later, Hermione was stretched out on the rug in front of the hearth, her clothes in a crumpled heap by her side, with her head lying in Malfoy's lap. Her bones felt heavy; she felt a deep sense of relaxation she hadn't felt in a long time, and knew that it was due in part to the boy – young man, rather – who was currently stroking her hair with gentle, lulling movements.

Despite her sense of relaxation, her mind quickly returned to its typical busyness and started flitting over the events of the last week.

"Luna said you helped her last year," she said into the quiet. She felt his fingers still.

"Luna Lovegood?"

"Yes. When she was held captive in your cellar. She said you smuggled her a charmed blanket and told her news of her father."

"It was nothing." His voice was hard and dismissive. "Nothing compared to how shit her situation was." She felt his fingers continue their gentle stroking.

"It wasn't nothing. It was definitely _something_ ," Hermione objected.

She heard him make a non-committal noise and felt his body relax as if the conversation was over.

"Alethea's asked me to come to one of your sessions," he said quietly after a moment's silence. She could tell he was making an effort to make his voice neutral. "Said it would be helpful for you to hear what happened at – in April last year. From someone who was there."

"Yes." She felt a curdling of nausea in her stomach, but it was nowhere near as bad as it would have been if she'd tried to talk to Malfoy about this even just a few weeks ago. "I can't remember a lot, and I really hate not remembering."

"The know-it-all hates not knowing it all. You surprise me." She could hear the smile on his lips.

"I suppose so, yes. I'm trying to work through it all and put it to bed." She lifted her head to look at him. "It's part of my way of dealing with stuff – of not 'fucking the pain away', as you put it." She smiled playfully up at him.

He gave her a strange look then, a look of soft affection, and she realised it was only strange because she had never seen him direct such a look towards _her_.

He nodded slowly, contemplatively. "Are you sure you want me to come to one of your sessions? I could just give you my memories of the – of that night? "

"Yes, I want you to. I want to hear you tell it, with your own words. If I just watch your memories, that would be – that just wouldn't be the same."

He smiled, and his smile was new to her too: a warm, open smile as if there was nothing he was trying to hide, nothing he was trying to defend against.

"Then of course. Of course I will."

* * *

"Okay. Draco, thank you again for coming to this joint session with Hermione," Alethea said. "We're hoping you can help Hermione fill in the gaps of the night of the eighteenth of April, when she and her friends were taken to Malfoy Manor. Hermione can remember up to the point where Harry Potter and Ron Weasley are taken down to the cellar, and then the next event she remembers clearly is waking up at Shell Cottage. Your memories of what happened in between are quite fragmented, aren't they Hermione?" Alethea's kind eyes turned from Malfoy to Hermione.

"Yes," Hermione rasped out the word, realising with frustration that her mouth had become dry. She and Malfoy were sitting on separate chairs, facing Alethea across the low coffee table.

"Hmm. And Hermione, are you ready to hear from Draco more detail of what happened from his perspective? You remember your relaxation strategies if you become anxious? Or we can just stop at any time."

"Yes. Yes, that's all okay." Hermione replied. Her words came out in a rush, from that part of her brain that wished they would all just get on with it.

"And Draco, I wanted to check the same with you. I know we've talked over that evening in our sessions, but you can always stop if it gets too difficult, or put into place some of the techniques that work for you."

Hermione frowned, her head snapping quickly towards Malfoy. It hadn't quite occurred to her that that evening would have been traumatic for him too. That he would need to counter the memories with therapeutic strategies like she did.

"Yes. That's fine," Malfoy replied in a tight voice, not taking his gaze from where it rested at the foot of the table.

"Okay. So Draco, would you like to tell us what happened after Ron and Harry were taken down to the cellar?" Alethea asked gently, cautiously.

Hermione heard Malfoy clear his throat and shuffle about in his chair. When he started to speak, his voice was low and grave. "After Greyback took Potter and Weasley from the room, Bellatrix, she –" Malfoy halted abruptly, causing Hermione to flit her eyes towards him again. Her gaze rested on his hands – he was gnawing at the skin around his thumb, she could see it starting to bleed, his knuckles white. "She dragged Granger into the middle of the room by her hair. I remember Granger looking her right in the eyes, with that defiant look she has – just as Bellatrix cast the first Crucio. Granger fell to her knees, crying out, as Bellatrix screamed at her, demanding to know where they'd found the Sword of Gryffindor.

"In between cries of pain, Granger managed to insist she didn't know anything about the sword. Which just wound Bellatrix up more...she cast another Crucio, then another, all the while carrying out this shrill, mad interrogation... I waited for Granger to cave, to tell her where they'd got the sword. I'd seen it so many times before – the most I've seen someone last under Bellatrix's Crucio's is ten minutes."

Malfoy paused, and when he continued, his voice had a hint of wonder to it. "But Granger didn't cave. Despite the fact the Bellatrix was getting more and more angry, more and more _spiteful_ –"

Malfoy suddenly sprung to his feet, the movement abrupt and agitated, and strode over to the window. Hermione's eyes involuntarily flew to him, but she couldn't see his face – he remained with his back towards her. "I wished she would just fucking tell her. Just so she'd stop fucking screaming," he continued bitterly. "She kept looking at me, you see. Granger. I was standing by the side of the room, and her eyes kept locking onto mine. She was giving me this pleading kind of look, as if pleading for me to not look away, as if I was somehow saving her just by _being_ there. Which is fucking ridiculous."

Malfoy paused, and Hermione saw his shoulders rise and fall as he took a deep, shuddering breath in and out. His arms were straight and stiff by his sides, hands balled into fists.

"After about five minutes, Bellatrix got exasperated. She stopped. Which gave Greyback a chance to come forward. He scuttled across the room and –" Malfoy faltered again, as if the words were stuck, thick and congealing in his throat. "He leant down and – and _sniffed_ her."

"I think I remember that," Hermione couldn't help but interrupt Malfoy. Her instinctive repulsion at the image of Greyback sniffing her was overtaken by the relief at having one of her many memory fragments make sense. "I remember the grease of his hair and – and I think that's what the rancid smell I sometimes remember is." Hermione looked at Alethea, who nodded in acknowledgement.

"Do you remember what he said?" Malfoy's turned his head slightly, although he still wasn't looking at her directly.

"No." Her voice was small, and she hated how vulnerable she sounded.

Malfoy raised his head and looked at Alethea as if asking permission. Hermione saw her give an imperceptible nod. _Yes_.

Malfoy turned back to the window, his shoulders rising again in another deep inhale. "He threatened to rape you." His voice was hard and resentful. But she knew it wasn't her that he resented.

Hermione was not surprised by this. Rape was commonly used as a weapon of war in the magical as well as Muggle worlds, as Lavender's sad story reflected. Hermione had often thought how grateful she'd been for escaping the war without suffering something similar.

"What – what exactly did Greyback say?" She was not sure why she needed to know, but she knew her imagination – what she could conjure up in her mind – could be worse than the reality.

"'I can smell that she's pure. Let me have her once you're finished with her','' Malfoy quoted. Hermione's stomach flipped threateningly. "Bellatrix ridiculed him, said something like 'you want a dirty mudblood, covered in her own piss and vomit?' –" Malfoy paused abruptly, as if he'd uttered something he hadn't meant to.

"Piss and vomit?" Hermione echoed, barely audibly.

Malfoy kept his head down, and said quietly to the floor. "You'd been sick – just moments before. And – and the Cruciatus Curse – it often makes people lose control of their bladder."

Hermione's face burned at Malfoy's words, but she refused to feel ashamed. At least the fragments of smell – of ammonia and bile – that she sometimes remembered made sense now.

"There was then talk of veritaserum, or legilimency," Malfoy continued hurriedly. "But I don't think they were... _physical_ enough for Bellatrix. That's when she scrambled about in her pocket for her cursed blade, crouched down and started cutting into Granger's arm."

There was another silence. Hermione had no words, no questions to fill it with this time, and Malfoy continued. "So that carried on for a while...Bellatrix with her dagger. But Granger wasn't screaming anymore...she would occasionally let out a strangled yelp, which was the only indication she was still conscious. Then those two – Potter and Weasley – burst into the room. There was a fight. My father was stunned and Bellatrix disarmed, but amongst it all she got hold of Granger and shoved a knife at her throat, which made Potter and Weasley stop. Then...then that elf managed to loosen the chandelier, causing Bellatrix to let go of Granger. It landed on top of her and the goblin though."

"Oh – that's why I remember fragments of glass, and those gleams of light…" Hermione contemplated.

Malfoy was silent for a moment before continuing. "Weasley pulled them both from the wreckage. Then Potter snatched their wands from my hand, threw one at Weasley, who grabbed Granger and disapparated with her." Hermione wondered how Harry had managed to get the wands so easily from Malfoy, but before she could think more on it, Malfoy continued. "Potter followed suit with Dobby, but only after Bellatrix had thrown her dagger at them..."

In the quiet that followed, Alethea looked between Hermione and Draco, her manner unusually tentative. "And Draco, what were you thinking? And feeling? During this time?"

Draco finally turned towards Alethea, and Hermione realised that Alethea already knew the answer to her question – it was something Malfoy and her had likely gone over with in his sessions. The question had been asked for Hermione's benefit only.

"I thought of doing something to stop it. But I'd tried that before, with the other people they'd brought into the drawing room, and I'd promised my mother I wouldn't anymore. V – Voldemort had threatened to – to torture my mother and make me watch the next time I tried anything. At other times he'd threatened to just kill her. So...so I had to just stand there and do fuck all," he finished bitterly.

Malfoy turned and looked at her properly for the first time since they'd been in the room together. His face was contorted in torment and there was something wrong with his eyes – they were glistening oddly. Hermione realised it was the first time she'd seen Draco Malfoy cry.

"You wouldn't stop looking at me," Malfoy continued, his voice anguished. "The _whole time_ Granger. Except when they were squeezed shut in pain or when you'd pass out for a bit. Even when she moved you around, your eyes would search me out again. And I started to mirror it...like you'd tethered me to you in some way. I started to move so that I was always in eye sight of you." He swiped impatiently at a tear on his cheek. "Why did you keep _looking_?"

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but no words formed so she closed it again. Because she couldn't remember what Malfoy was recalling – she couldn't remember her eyes seeking him out in that room.

"Draco, would you like a moment?" Alethea asked quietly.

Malfoy took a deep breath in and looked resignedly up at the ceiling before walking to the chair next to Hermione and taking a seat again. He avoided looking at her.

"I'm fine," he mumbled to the floor.

Alethea gave a small smile, before starting to speak. "In a traumatic situation, when one fears for their own life or integrity of the self, the mind does many things to cope in the moment. Our survival instinct kicks in, as you know. I'm wondering if there was something about Hermione looking at you that helped her cope in that situation, Draco. I wonder if your face – your eyes specifically – linked very powerfully to certain memories for Hermione. Memories of Hogwarts, of lessons, of the library, where she felt safe and content and with friends."

"That doesn't make sense. I was horrible to her – I wouldn't have been associated with any good memories for her."

"Yes, but in that room you were the closest thing Hermione had to safety. Or at least, that's what her mind interpreted, in order to cope and to keep lying under torture and protecting those she loved. Also, I wonder if you reminded her of her own strength, and sense of self. I understand that you, Draco, often came off worse in your sparring during your earlier years at Hogwarts."

"So that's why she kept looking? Because I reminded her of _safety_? Of her own strength?" Draco asked, scornful and disbelieving.

Alethea gave a non-committal wobble of her head. "It's a theory of mine. Not based on a lot of evidence, I'll admit. Although there are some cases that support the argument that eye contact between magical kind, between witches or wizards that share some kind of affinity, can be very powerful."

Hermione's mind reeled. She remembered right back to the first day of term, to when Malfoy had stopped her in the corridor and she felt like his eyes were keeping her rooted to the floor like a hundred year old oak tree. She remembered the first time they kissed and how looking in his eyes had given her such a profound sense of calm. She thought of how they'd continued to do so since.

Hermione sensed Malfoy's posture change. He sagged into the chair, as if exhausted. "I didn't have any idea about all that...sometimes I thought she was doing it to punish me somehow? To make me feel guilty." His eyes flickered up to Alethea, and Hermione found she didn't seem to mind that he was talking about her as if she wasn't there. She could understand how difficult it was to voice any of this at all, and was just grateful to him that he was trying.

" _Did_ you feel guilty?" Alethea asked gently.

"Worse than guilty," Malfoy replied unhesitatingly. "I hate myself for what I did. For what I didn't do."

"Well, we've talked about how you really had no choice. About how Voldemort always saw love as a weakness and took advantage of the love that your parents have for each other, and for you. That he would always control one of your family by threatening harm to another member."

Hermione felt a curdling of horror at the thought of her loved ones being under constant danger, of their safety being entirely dependent on her own behaviour. But before she could say anything, Malfoy stood up abruptly.

"Are we finished here?" he said, his tone now one of familiar disdain and haughtiness.

Alethea raised her eyebrows slightly but otherwise didn't acknowledge the abrupt change in Malfoy's mood.

"Well, is there anything you'd like to add, Draco? To what you've said? Or to ask Hermione?"

"No," he said with finality, straightening his shoulders.

"Hermione, is there anything you feel is missing? Anything else you'd like to ask or say to Draco?"

There was so much Hermione wanted to ask and to say to him, but at the same time her mouth seemed to be trapping all her words inside of her. It was as if what she wanted to say meant too much, and felt too private, to be spoken in front of Alethea, and before she had managed to think on them further.

Instead, she voiced the words silently in her head, so at least her mind could bear witness to them:

_I'm so sorry about what happened to you._

_Don't cry._

_Stop hating yourself._

_I forgive you. Even though there's nothing to forgive._

And she just shook her head, looked at the worn patch of carpet by her feet and mumbled, "No. I don't have anything else to say."

* * *

They were silent as they left Alethea's office together. It was late and Hermione felt as if she'd been squeezed and wrung out, drained and weary, and all she could think about was how much she wanted to sleep.

At the turning in the corridors where they would part – he to the Slytherin Common Room and she to Gryffindor Tower – they stopped. She chanced a glance at him and saw in the redness of his eyes and the pallor of his skin that he felt very much like her – as if every emotion had ricocheted around his mind and body, until they were exhausted and shaken out of him.

Malfoy's hand sank into his pocket, and he scrambled around for a moment before pulling out an envelope.

"Here," he said, holding it out to her. "Remember the letter task?"

"Yes." Her voice was cautious, curious.

"This is the letter I _meant_ to send. Mostly. I've added to it a bit since then. I think – I think I'm ready for you to read it now."

Her hand reached out and clasped around the thick parchment. There was trepidation in the folds of the letter, she could sense it, but at the same time the feel of parchment round her fingers always brought her comfort, and it was no different now. Like being around Malfoy himself, it was a strange, contradictory combination of apprehension and stability.

"Oh. Thank you." Again, Hermione wished she would say more but, as they had for the last hour or so, her mind and tongue betrayed her and left her mute.

He nodded shortly, turned and walked, tall and stiff, down the corridor towards his common room.

Unsurprisingly, she couldn't wait long before reading the letter. She changed hurriedly for bed, wrapped her blankets tightly about her, propped herself up with pillows, cast the curtains about her and carefully opened the envelope.

She smoothed the pages out delicately before beginning to read:

_Granger,_

_You asked me whether there's still blood stains on the floor of my drawing room. No, there aren't_ – _despite the fact that there was so much blood spilt in that room, Granger. I had to kneel in front of him once and I remember it seeping through the knee of my trousers, sticky and luke-warm, because it was still bleeding from a body lying a few feet away._

_None of that blood stains my floor anymore but, as you no doubt now know, that doesn't mean I don't remember the things that happened there._

_I noticed, right back at the beginning of this school year, how you were the empty shell of what you used to be. And I couldn't stand it_ – _because I knew that it was my family that had done that to you. Or at least, everything my family had stood for. And it was fucking wretched having to watch you like that_ – _having to look at you when all the life had died from you. Because every time I did, it was a reminder of the pain I'd caused. Of the suffering inflicted by the ideology I'd stood for since I could ride a fucking broom._

_You'd always been a symbol of the light: good and brave and defiantly doing what you felt was right. But it was as if, despite the light's victory, the dark had destroyed that. Had destroyed you. And I couldn't fucking stand it._

_Which is why, in my fucked up way, I taunted and goaded you. Because I could see a spark of life in your eyes when I did that. I could feel it in the sting of your fist crushing against my face. I didn't know how else to be_ – _how else to bring you back. Nobody had ever taught me how to apologise, how to voice genuine regret, how to console._

_So what do I want? For you, and for me? Here are a few things:_

_I want to be able to look at your face and not remember it twisted in agony as my own kin makes your bones feel on fire and your blood feel like boiling acid in your veins._

_I want to forget the sounds of your screams. It's as if they're woven in my soul and I want them fucking_ OUT.

_I want to be able to take back all the times I called you 'Mudblood'._

_More than that_ – _I want to travel back in time and punch my younger self alongside you. I want to tell him to think for himself instead of mindlessly absorbing the bigoted, hateful beliefs of his father_ – _beliefs that had seeped into him like an insidious poison._

 _I want you to stop hurting yourself. Properly_ – _for good. I want that fucking scar to heal. Like I want_ – need – _you to heal._

_I want to burn the sorrow from your eyes. Or if I can't do it, I hope for the love of Merlin that someone else can._

_I_ don't _want you to have to jump off the Astronomy Tower just to feel alive again._

_You don't have to like me or want me, I just want this for you. Because you don't deserve to have soaked in other people's pain until you couldn't stand it anymore, causing you to have shut down as if someone's nox'ed your soul._

_And if I could bear that pain instead of you, I would. If there was some way of pouring it from you into me, I would do so until I'm saturated with it._

_You may wonder why I want this or why I care...maybe it's the need for some kind of atonement, or it's me finally taking responsibility for who I am. For who I was. And I still don't know how much disparity there is between the person I was and the person I am now. I don't know how much I've changed. How much I_ can _change._

 _But I know that, above all, I want_ – _I_ need – _you to forgive me for the things that I said and did. And for the things I didn't do._

_There's probably more but I know I'm asking way too fucking much already._

_Draco._

Hermione sat frozen and still amongst the crimson covers of her Gryffindor bed. Her eyes danced across Malfoy's words again, trying to take them in, before starting to read the letter once more, slowly and deliberately, wanting to process each word.

But she'd only got as far as the third paragraph when she was distracted by a flash of light and the feel or something warm against her right hip. She grappled about under her pillow and retrieved her Binding Book from where she had last left it.

She turned to the new page of print and read:

_oOo_

_Your Fifth Task_

_As you know, this is your last task._

_Meet and discuss why you think the magic of this project matched you with your partner._

_What is it that_ you _have that the other person needed, or perhaps still needs?_

_Likewise, what have you gained from the other person through this process?_

_You might wish to think quite a bit about this before you meet with your partner, and/or talk things through with Alethea._

_You may wish to write some notes of your discussion in your Binding Book._

_We hope that the conversations you have are illuminating and helpful!_

_oOo_

Only a moment later, Malfoy's writing appeared in the book.

 _DM: Hi Hermione_.

Her heart stilled. It was so odd, Malfoy addressing her by her first name, even in writing.

_HG: Hi_

_DM: Where do you want to meet?_

She paused, still thinking, finding it particularly hard due to the tumult of emotions the words of his letter had caused. Before she responded, Malfoy's script appeared again:

_DM: I was thinking maybe the Astronomy Tower?_

_DM: Let's end this where it all began._

She wondered if, by 'began', he meant the time he'd come and saved her from the suicide-attempt-that-never-was. Or maybe he meant before that, when Dumbledore had fallen to his death over the Tower's parapets. Or maybe even earlier, when an eleven year old Draco had had his first Astronomy lesson, gazing up at the stars with wonder in his eyes, his heart light with hopes and possibilities.

But what also struck her was the phrase 'let's end this'. Because whatever the 'it' was that she had with Malfoy, she didn't think she wanted it to end.

But the Binding Book was not the place to question all that. So she merely scrawled a few words in response.

_HG: Okay. The Astronomy Tower. Tomorrow evening?_

_DM: Okay._

She thought about whether she should write something about his letter. But his words are too raw, too new in her mind. She needed her understanding of them to form and settle before she responded to them. And responding to them in writing felt like doing them an injustice. He deserved verbal words, addressed to his face, which is what she'd failed to do earlier that evening.

She waited a minute. Then two. Nothing further appeared on the page of her Book, so she was just closing it when Malfoy's handwriting surfaced once more:

_DM: Treachery and violence are spears pointed at both ends; they wound those who resort to them worse than their enemies._

She immediately recognised the words as a quote from _Wuthering Heights._

She sat still, frozen again, staring down at the words without really seeing them. She thought of what could have led a boy of sixteen, still only a child really, to have the Dark Mark burnt into his arm. She remembered the letter she'd just read... _I had to kneel before him_...and of what Nott had said: _since Voldemort had risen again in the Little Hangleton graveyard the year we turned fifteen, there had been many occasions when Draco's parents' lives were threatened if Draco didn't do or say certain things._..She thought of Ingleton's words about how events are far too messy to divide people up into neat groups of good and evil. About how they were all too young. That they were all, in fact, survivors.

And then, further writing appeared on the page:

_DM: I'm sorry._

She stared at the words for some moments, in the quiet of her Gryffindor dorm, until they became so smudged and blotched with her tears that had splashed onto the page that they were rendered illegible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: the 'eye contact as a way of managing trauma and feeling safe' that Alethea mentions in this chapter is NOT a thing in actual trauma experiences/therapy. There's no evidence for this - it's just something I've created for the benefit of the story, and I hope we can all suspend belief and embrace the idea that maybe it IS something that can happen between magical kind! :o)
> 
> Huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazingly encouraging alphabetas.
> 
> Your thoughts and feedback are cherished and treasured!


	23. Kintsugi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all those who've shared their thoughts about the previous chapter. Sorry I haven't been able to reply to the comments individually, but I appreciate every word!

_And if you have a minute, why don't we go / Talk about it somewhere only we know? / This could be the end of everything / So why don't we go / Somewhere only we know?_

\- Somewhere Only We Know, Keane

* * *

It was one of the warmest evenings of the year so far when Hermione went to meet Malfoy in the Astronomy Tower. Spring was finally emerging – she caught the sweet scent of wild flowers on the mild breeze that blew in from the grounds as she crossed the Entrance Hall on her way to the Tower.

Hermione had always loved the beginning of spring – the sense that the earth was awakening and thawing after a long winter – and she experienced a jolt of joy as she passed an open window and felt the warmth of the setting sun on her face. She slowed down at that point, closing her eyes, and just focused on the feel of the sun's rays. _Joy_. Something she'd worried that she might never feel again. The feeling was already dissipating, but she allowed herself a smile as she started climbing the stairs to the battlements above.

Malfoy was already there when she emerged onto the roof, his back to her, leaning against one of the stone pillars that stood by the roof's edge. A light, energising feeling surged through her at the sight of his frame: joy. Again. She'd felt it again – at the sight of Malfoy, of all things.

"Oh. You're here already," Hermione blurted out. She'd purposely gotten there early, for what reason she wasn't sure. Possibly to prepare herself in some way.

He turned to face her. His expression was that guarded, assessing one she'd become so familiar with, but there was a hint of something soft about his face. It was new, that softness; she still wasn't used to it. The newness unnerved her somewhat, but she liked it all the same.

"So are you," he stated, his voice surprisingly gentle. Then he inhaled sharply, and turned back to the view of the mountains that could be seen from Tower's roof. "I've been coming here a lot this year. It -" He broke off. Hermione could sense his awkwardness in how he shuffled from one foot to the other, how his hand reached up to rub the back of his neck. "It's been part of my therapy…to expose myself to this place."

 _Exposure._ Hermione was instantly reminded of her conversations with Alethea. And an image flashed into her mind; an image from her imagination rather than her memory, because she hadn't been there: of Malfoy standing on this very roof, his arm outstretched, his wand pointing at Dumbledore, and his face contorted in the anguish of indecision.

Then, another image, this time rich and vivid because it _was_ from her actual memory: Malfoy bent double, caressing his groin, sweat beading his forehead and his breath coming in quick gasps. Bent double after Hermione had violently forced her knee between his legs. _Exposure_...the images collided in her mind, and she suddenly conceived of a very different explanation of Malfoy's reaction that evening than the one she'd had at the time.

"You were panicking!" she exclaimed instinctively, taking a step towards him. "That time when you pushed me back from the edge and held me down, when I left you – you were panicking." Her voice had turned into one of dismay and regret. Because she hadn't realised. The trauma the war had left her with had been so enveloping at that time, she hadn't been able to see through it to grasp that this place would have held memories of fear and suffering for Malfoy. Then, probably as a way of quelling her rising guilt, she said almost accusingly. "You said you'd come here to think."

"Yeah. Well. My own fault really. I was being my normal stubborn, stupid self. Came up here on my own, in the dark, after one too many firewhiskeys. That was definitely _not_ what Alethea had advised."

Then, with another surge of dismay, Hermione remembered something else. "You said Astronomy was your favourite subject. Is that why – is that why you're not studying it this term? It isn't because you don't think it would be a good career choice at all, is it?" The war had taken so much from them, Hermione realised now, but it was these seemingly little things that felt like a particularly spiteful punch in the gut.

She didn't miss the sadness that flicked across his eyes, even with the speed in which he hid it with nonchalant indifference. "Well. McGonagall and Sinistra have said that I'm welcome to take an intensive course in the summer, now that I'm able to stay up here without shitting myself."

"Oh." Vicarious hope sprung in her heart. "That's good, isn't it?"

He smiled then, a genuine smile. "Yeah. Yeah, it is good."

She took some more steps towards him, so she was standing by his side, and looked out at the low clouds that hung between a darkening sky and the mountains' slopes. "I should have realised, though, what was happening," she said remorsefully. She didn't just mean the time Malfoy had panicked on the place they now stood, she meant all of it – she should have seen all the damage and the broken pieces that Voldemort and the war had scattered about them and left others to pick up.

"No, you shouldn't have," Malfoy said softly, as he turned to gaze at the horizon too. "I never gave you any reason to think of me sympathetically."

"But I shouldn't have been so self-absorbed. I should have realised that other people were struggling too."

He turned to look at her, his penetrating eyes calming and stilling the tumult of emotions in her in that uncanny way they so often did.

"So many 'shoulds' Granger," he finally said, his voice solemn and regretful. He reached out to cup her chin in his hand and tenderly stroke a thumb down her cheek. "We could fucking drown in them."

She smiled back at him then, at this gesture of forgiveness and understanding, and there was a silence as his words settled in the dust around them.

"I – I read your letter." she said eventually. He just nodded, his eyes flitting away from and towards a point over her right shoulder. "Thank you. Thank you for being so honest. I – it helped me understand so much."

"I wanted to try and explain things. But I don't even know if that letter does it justice." He looked back at her then, almost defiant and a little weary, as if waging an old, familiar internal battle with himself. Then he bit his next words out: "I _am_ sorry. For how I treated you at school – before." He took a deep breath in and turned away from her to look back at the mountains. "I really believed it, you know. It was everything that my father taught me: that purebloods were inherently superiour, that there was something intrinsically wrong with Muggle-borns. But that's not the reason why _you,_ in particular, always got under my skin. Why I teased and taunted you much more than all the other Muggle-borns in this school. My mind couldn't handle it, you see. It couldn't handle how you went against everything I'd been taught. How could I keep believing Muggle-borns were stupid and inferiour and dirty, when _you_ kept walking around the school – bright, and – and brilliant and –" Malfoy shook his head, as if he were struggling to find the right words. " _Beautiful_. It didn't make sense – you contradicted it all. And it made me angry. Angry at you for being there, causing this massive crack in the logic of the ideology that defined my very existence. And, like the idiot I was, I took that anger out on you."

Hermione listened silently, watching Malfoy's profile as he spoke into the fading twilight. There was a lot to take in in what he said, but inexplicably, possibly vainly, the sentiments that were dancing about her mind the most were that he thought of her as 'beautiful' and 'brilliant'. And that he'd thought of her that way even before the war had waged its destruction.

"When I was younger, much younger, I suppose I was intrigued by the Dark Arts," Malfoy continued. "I'm not going to lie, the less gracious traits of Slytheirn in me dominated and I got a bit seduced by it all, by the potential power... But the reality – the reality was so fucking different." Malfoy's face contorted bitterly. "It quickly turned terrifying, and I saw it for what it was – evil, corrupted. But I had no choice but to go along with it all – my parents – fuck knows what he would have done to them if I hadn't. I was in far too deep...and fucking drowning."

"And then – at the beginning of this year – there you were again, and you reminded me of how wrong I'd gotten it all. And, to twist the knife, you were walking around like your soul had been sucked out of you. Like I wrote in my letter, that pissed me off...but I didn't know what to do with that anger."

He looked at her with something like pleading in his eyes. And she thought she understood what he was pleading for, what he was needing. She understood how much humility it took to admit your own faults, especially when it felt like those faults – those beliefs – had been the bedrock of who you were.

"I forgive you," The words that had seemed so hard to voice in Alethea's office came to her easily now. "I forgive you for all the times you called me 'mudblood'. For all the times you mocked me. We make mistakes when we're young, the important thing is learning from them. And I can see that you're truly sorry." She noticed something new come to his expression then: hope. Hope and relief. Then she carried on, her voice firmer. "But I don't forgive you for what happened at Malfoy Manor." His eye flickered. She saw uncertainty in them, saw the lines of his face return to a familiar guardedness, so she quickly continued, reaching up to caress his jaw with her hand, wanting to smooth the uncertainty away with her touch. "Because there's nothing to forgive. You had no choice in that room but to do what you did. I would have done the same to protect my parents. Anyone would."

His face softened slightly, his feature relaxing. "I don't know if I'll ever completely agree with you on that. But thank you anyway… I don't believe it any more of course. You know that, right? But now, I don't know what the fuck I believe. It's like I'm unanchored. Adrift, I suppose...And I don't even know if I _can_ be any different. It's something Alethea and I have talked about a lot." He started picking at the stone pillar next to him, jabbing at where the masonry was crumbling away, frowning at it as if it had done him some wrong. "Whether I can be more than just...evil, sullied, power-hungry."

She reached her hand around the nape of his neck, stroking the ends of his hair with her thumb. As he turned to look at her once more, she reached up and kissed him tenderly on the lips. "I know you can be much more than that, Malfoy," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "I know you can be more than your father's son."

His frown returned. "You really think so?" There was something in his voice she'd rarely heard before. It was a kind of desperateness. And it seemed as if her answer to his question was like a lifeline for him; she felt the weight of responsibility that encased her answer. Sensed that the wrong answer would mean he'd fall over a precipice, but the right one would be throwing him a life line.

"I know so," she replied with conviction. "You already are. The very fact you don't _want_ to be already means that you're not. That you're better than him. I can see it in your face when you look at me sometimes. Hear it in your words." She stroked her hand down his chest, and wrapped it around his back, drawing him closer to her. "Feel it in your touch," she said, speaking into the curve of his neck, before craning up to kiss him again. It was a deep and intense kiss, her blood flared with heat at it, nerves tingling right down her spine to her toes. Would her body never tire of kissing him?

When their lips parted, he smiled down at her. It was a rueful smile but a smile nonetheless.

"Well," he said dryly. "We've done half the task already at least."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean we've established what I managed to get from you. What you and only you could have given me. For it to feel as if it actually meant something real."

Hermione continued to frown up at him. She really didn't understand what he meant.

"You've given me your forgiveness, Hermione." Her whole body flinched with a delightful kind of shock at the sound of her name on his lips. "And your belief that I can be more than – how did you put it? 'More than my father's son'. That if someone – someone like _you_ – can see through all the rottenness of me to something worth wanting underneath it all, then maybe there's hope for me."

It was her turn to frown up at him, saddened that underneath his nonchalant, arrogant exterior he'd harboured so much dislike for himself. "Of course there is," she stated conclusively, and realised her voice had it's old determined firmness to it.

He smiled, a smile that reached his eyes, before it quickly faded again. "I have no fucking clue what _you_ were able to gain from me though," he said bitterly.

Her heart stilled at the acidity of his tone. "You really have no idea?"

He shook his head sadly. She pulled away from him, unbuttoned her left shirt cuff and rolled up her sleeve, holding out her arm so he could see the inside of her forearm. He looked at her bare, non-bandaged skin. The letters carved into her arm were a harmless looking inky-white now. The wounds had finally, properly healed.

His lips turned up in disdain. "So, because I asked you not to pick at your scar, I've helped those God-awful cuts to heal?" he asked skeptically. "Or I helped fill you in on that fucking nightmare of an evening when you ended up under my aunt's blade in the first place?"

She smiled at his derision, and lowered her arm. "No. Well, partly. But not just that. Not just that at all. It's like you said in your letter: you made me _feel_ again. Firstly, because you were so bloody annoying. Well, worse than annoying really, you were awful. And that made me angry, and feeling anger was better than feeling absolutely nothing at all," She looked up, searching his eyes, hoping that something in her expression would help him believe the sincerity of her words. "You brought me back to life again… Like you said, it's as if someone had nox'ed my soul."

HIs lips twitched at one corner – the beginnings of another smile. "I have noticed. Just in the last few weeks. I've noticed – it's like your eyes have light in them again...I – I really helped you to come back to life like that?"

Hermione grinned up at him. "Yes," she stated definitively. "I was so numb before...Alethea said it was all a combination of a trauma reaction and compassion fatigue. It's funny...the Sorting Hat saw that it might happen. Warned me about it that very first day of school. It quoted Dostoyevsky at me, of all people: 'pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart'."

"Hmm...well, you do have both of those." Malfoy looked at her thoughtfully before turning away from her once more to lean against the pillar to his left, gazing out at the mountain tops. "Sounds a bit more profound than what it said to me. Although it did question whether my Slytherin-related beliefs were actually mine or my fathers. Asked whether I wanted to go into Ravenclaw. But I was a stubborn little prick back then. Insisted on Slytherin."

"Oh! The Hat suggested Ravenclaw for me too!" Hermione exclaimed. "But I said I valued bravery over books so…" She turned to follow his gaze. The sun had almost disappeared now, causing slivers of red and gold to bleed out across the horizon. "I wonder what would have happened if we'd both ended up there…"

"Hmm...I'm not sure...maybe this is how things were meant to go…"

She took a tentative step towards him and without looking at her, he held out his arm, welcoming her into an embrace. She wrapped both her own arms around his waist, snuggling her head under his chin, and tried not to think about how odd it was that this felt so natural.

"Did it help?" Malfoy asked quietly. "That last session with Alethea? With the both of us there?"

It would have been hard to talk about before. But she realised that she could speak about these things now without it feeling as if something were crushing down on her heart. "Yes. Yes, it did," she leant up to peck a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you for doing it."

"It was nothing. It's not something I deserve a thank you for." His voice was tinged with bitterness. She wondered if that would ever go away when he talked about the war.

"Oh, I think it is." She tightened her hold around his waist, momentarily squeezing him to her, but didn't push the point. "There was something else, though. There was something else that Alethea and I thought would be good for me to do, but I'd need your help with it."

"What?" He craned his neck, looking down at her quizzically.

"Exposure," she replied, looking back at him. "Exposure to the place it happened. For me to go into the drawing room at Malfoy Manor, and to manage being there. Not to say that I would be _over_ it, but I would definitely feel – as if I were in control of it."

He frowned, looking disconcerted. "Are you sure that's something you want to do? It's not like you _need_ to go there at all – not in the way that I needed to come up here for Astronomy lessons."

"I know but – yes. Yes, I'm sure."

He stroked a hand up and down her back and gave her a look of resignation. "Well, if you and Alethea really think it's a good idea, then of course. Of course I'll help."

* * *

Alethea requested permission from McGonagall for Hermione and Malfoy to go to Malfoy Manor the next weekend – the second weekend of March. Alethea suggested she go with them, but Hermione declined the offer. She wanted to do this alone. Well, alone but for Malfoy, of course. Alethea did insist, though, that she talk through the visit in detail with both Hermione and Malfoy, a session in which they identified Hermione's potential triggers and reiterated her strategies for managing them.

At midday on Saturday, she and Malfoy apparated to just outside the wrought iron gates of Malfoy Manor. Malfoy had explained that, when accompanied by a non-family member, he could not apparate directly inside the boundaries of the estate.

Hermione looked up at the house. Now, in the light of a warm spring day, with Malfoy's hand clutched firmly onto hers, it didn't look anything like what it had almost a year before. Then, it had been formidable and foreboding, and had instilled in her a tumult of anxiety which she'd unsuccessfully tried to quell as she'd been marched down the gravel drive. She'd anticipated that that feeling might return now, but she felt strangely calm.

"Mother told me she'd be out," Malfoy said as he charmed the gates open and they started walking towards the house. "She's allowed one visit out of her house every two months. And I've told the house elves not to bother us."

He had explained this to her already, and Hermione just nodded her head in acknowledgment. She was remembering the feel of a snatcher's wand prodding viciously into the small of her back. The punishing grip of his fingers around her arm –

But then she felt Malfoy's hand squeeze hers, and was distracted by a white peacock strolling onto the path in front of them.

"Okay?" Malfoy asked once they reached the stone steps that led up to the entrance of the house. He was frowning down at her in concern, so she forced a smile of reassurance back at him and nodded.

He led her through the large oak doors to an airy entrance hall. Hermione's heart immediately sped up. It was the smell. A specific smell of wood polish mixed with a floral scent – geraniums, Hermione thought – which filled a vase that stood on a side table. She wondered if those same flowers had been in this hallway last year. Her hand tightened involuntarily around Malfoy's as they came to a stop outside what she presumed was the door to the drawing room.

Malfoy looked down at her with the same frown on his face – concerned and clearly disgruntled with the situation. She understood that it pained him for her to do this, that he did not want to see her dissolve into a mess of panic and anxiety.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

She took a deep breath in and out, and reminded herself that her memories of what had happened here were just that – memories. That a year ago, she had come out of this house alive, hurt but alive, and that she was safe now. Her heart rate slowed with every such thought she reeled off in her head.

"Yes," she stated, and was surprised by the determination and steadiness of her voice.

Malfoy gave a short nod and opened the door. She stood for a moment, before taking a few tentative steps over the threshold. She looked around – at the wood panelled walls, the grand piano in the corner, the Chesterfield sofa and chair by the large fireplace. The room seemed bigger than she remembered, but then it _had_ been filled with rather a lot of people last time she was here. She walked into the centre of the room, feeling surprising calm, and started to wonder what all her apprehension had been about. It seemed like a different room entirely. Pleasant, even, with the sun streaming in through the large sash windows, one of which was open, the spring breeze causing the thin silk curtains to ripple and shimmer.

"Where was it?" she asked, turning to Malfoy who was still standing in the doorway. Her voice sounded louder than she expected. "Where was the place where she – where I was tortured?" It felt good to say those words out loud – _I was tortured_ – in the place where it had happened. Like she was claiming something back that had been taken from her.

Malfoy stepped forward, his features twisted as if in torment. His eyes shifted about the room, assessing and appraising. "You were moved around quite a bit."

She stepped towards him, remembering that the memories of what happened in this room were painful for him too. She took his hand and asked more gently, "Where was it that she cut my arm? Specifically?"

His frown deepened as he led her to a spot a little further towards the grand piano, his footsteps heavy and reluctant, as if he were leading her to the gallows.

"About here," he said, stopping. "No. _Exactly_ here." Then, with bitterness: "I'll never forget it."

Hermione looked down at the floorboards. They looked rather innocuous, the grain knotted and polished, like those of the rest of the room. There were no bloodstains, like he'd said, nothing to indicate what had happened on this spot a year ago. And Hermione realised that she continued to feel... _fine_. Calm. Contained. And, in recognising that, she felt a surge of something like power at the realisation that this room was not beating her. She looked across at Malfoy, smiling, wanting him to share in her triumph, but he was just scowling down at the floor, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

She stepped towards him and reached out to stroke a hand down his back. "What's it like for you to be here? Did you spend much time in here, over last summer and the Christmas holidays?"

He shrugged. "I don't love it. Too much has happened here. In fact, every room in this house is tainted now. But I can put up with it. At least whilst mum is under house arrest here, I'll put up with it. We're trying to make new memories, but I don't think I'll live here again – not properly."

"That's sad. I'm sorry. It's like you've lost your home."

Malfoy grimaced, shaking his head. "No. A home is what you make it. It's more than four walls and masonry."

Just then, the breeze that was coming in through the window picked up, causing the curtains to billow into the room, and the sun to cast a different light up to the ceiling. It gleamed off the huge crystal chandelier that hung down into the center of the room - _and suddenly it was falling, falling down towards her_ – _it would crush her_ – _she would be covered in countless sharp, stinging cuts -_

But _no_. She pulled a cloth pouch from her pocket and brought it to her nose, breathing in the scent of the mint that emitted from it. She was engulfed with memories of her the kitchen of her childhood home, as her mum chopped up mint leaves that they'd just picked from the garden. Her heart slowed as she breathed in the scent of safety, and she looked back up at the chandelier, which was hanging, robust and steady, with no sign of falling.

It was March 1999. And, although she was in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor, she was entirely safe.

"I think we should go." Malfoy looked even more disgruntled, no doubt at her display of near-panic.

"I'm fine," she insisted. Because, really – she was. "I lost it there for a tiny second – but I'm fine now… Can I – can I just walk around for a bit?"

Malfoy shrugged. "Of course."

She wandered slowly over to the fireplace, noticed the coal scuttle was only half full...but then it was coming towards the midst of spring now. She looked up at the mirror above the mantelpiece, at the ornate, gilded frame that surrounded it...moved on to gaze up at the portrait of a woman wearing a vibrant green cloak – some Malfoy ancestor, no doubt...and then to the corner of the room where a card table was set against the wall, with a stack of well used playing cards sitting on top of it.

All the while, Malfoy stood on the same spot, his expression unreadable except for his eyes, which watched her – sharp, attentive, alert.

By the time she'd done a circuit of the room, she felt a new kind of stillness settle over her. A restfulness. She could be okay in this room, she had taken charge here, it did not control her in any way.

She turned and once more gave Malfoy a jubilant smile. He opened his mouth to speak but before he did, she heard the sound of footsteps clipping on the flagstones of the hallway outside, and a voice saying. "Not sure why the door's open...how very odd..."

Hermione stilled and saw Draco's eyes widened in surprise as two women appeared in the doorway of the drawing room. She immediately recognised one as Narcissa Malfoy, but all the muscles in Hermione's body tensed as she took in the wild black curls and heavy brows of her companion. Her hand reached instinctively for her wand, but no – it was okay - this woman had a warmth to her eyes that Bellatrix Lestrange had never had. And now she was looking closer, Hermione saw her features were actually quite different. But what's more, this woman held an infant in her arms, a grinning, babbling infant whose hair was turning from an electric blue to fuchsia pink.

Both women had come to an abrupt halt on the threshold of the room.

"Draco!" Narcissa exclaimed, her eyes flitting alarmingly between her son and Hermione. "Oh! I wasn't expecting you to be home." Then she made a rather expert effort at covering her startled expression with calmness and composure. "And you've brought a guest?"

"Yes," Draco replied, his voice tight. "I thought you were spending the afternoon at Andromeda's, and didn't think we'd be long, so didn't think to let you know…" It didn't sound a particularly convincing excuse, but Narcissa didn't challenge it.

"Well, we had planned to, but then Andromeda wanted to see the new rose garden, so I thought we'd come back here and I could show her..." Both women stepped further into the room. Narcissa smiled at her and Hermione was surprised to find that the smile seemed warm, genuine and not forced at all. "Welcome, Miss Granger. Has Draco offered you tea? I baked some scones earlier, you must stay for some."

"Oh I'm not sure - thanks but -" Hermione's gabbling was interrupted by the infant in Andromeda's arms - Teddy Lupin, Hermione surmised - crying out in joy as he seemed to recognise Malfoy. He reached his chubby arms out towards him, stretching his body to get out of Andromeda's arms and into that of his cousin's.

"Oh, you're still his favourite, it seems," Andromeda said affectionately as she passed Teddy to Malfoy's ready arms, before turning to Hermione. "Andromeda Tonks," she introduced herself, stretching out a hand for Hermione to shake. "I think we met briefly last summer. At a funeral or two, sadly."

"Yes. Hello." Hermione replied, shaking Andromeda's hand. Then Narcissa was saying something about having tea and scones in the 'Blue Room', but Hermione was too distracted with Malfoy and Teddy to listen properly. Because something strange had come over Malfoy - it seemed as if he were possessed by someone else.

"Hey, little fella, how're you?" Malfoy was saying to Teddy. He jiggled the infant up and down in his arms, grinning broadly in a way Hermione had never seen before. He seemed entirely at ease and relaxed, his usual guardedness totally abandoned.

"He's missed you, it seems. But then Christmas probably seems like a long time ago for him," Andromeda was saying, as Narcissa gave instructions to a house elf who seemed to have appeared from nowhere.

"Right. Well, we'll see you in the Blue Room in a few minutes. There's something we need to do first," Malfoy said after a few minutes, handing Teddy back to Andromeda.

Hermione didn't miss the curiosity that flickered over Narcissa's face, but the woman was, again, a master of subtlety as she smiled graciously and swept herself, Andromeda and Teddy from the room.

Malfoy turned to her. "I – I have something for you. Come this way – I asked the house elf to keep it in the kitchen."

"Something for me?" Hermione enquired as he took her hand and led her through several wood-paneled hallways to a large, empty kitchen.

"Hmm-mmm," was all Malfoy replied. He reached up to a high shelf above the sink, took down a rectangular package wrapped in midnight blue tissue paper and held it out to her.

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed, taking the box. "A present! Why are you giving me a present? It's not my birthday."

Malfoy shrugged. "I don't need an occasion to give people presents."

Hermione smiled at his churlishness and started to unwrap the gift. "Well. Thank you." Underneath the tissue paper was a box, in the same shade of midnight blue.

"Careful. It's quite fragile," Malfoy warned.

Heeding his words, she placed the box on the kitchen table in order to undo it and pull out its contents.

She gasped as she found a vase in her hands, in a stunning vibrant blue glaze. But it wasn't an ordinary vase, for criss-crossing the ceramic in beautiful, irregular patterns were lines of gold.

Malfoy looked at her uncertainly. "It's a Japanese art form, Kint -"

"Kintsugi," Hermione finished for him.

Malfoy's lips twitched. "Yes. They repair broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. It's as much a philosophy as a technique, though. They treat breakage and repair as part of an object's history – as if the repair – the flaws – are to be celebrated, and not hidden." He reached out, cupping her jaw with his hand. "I always kind of liked that idea – finding beauty in something's imperfections. That the trials an object goes through can actually add to it's value, and not take away from it."

Hermione carefully turned the vase around in her hands. "It _is_ beautiful." It was such a lovely gift, so _thoughtful_ , she didn't quite know what to say. She smiled up at Malfoy. "Thank you. It's so lovely. I – I'm quite overwhelmed!"

He shuffled his feet in the way that she now knew meant he was feeling apprehensive about something. His gaze darted away some unknown spot beyond her before returning to her again. He took a deep breath, his brows knitting together, and his eyes burrowing into hers, intent and earnest, before he said, his voice tight, as if he were reluctantly declaring a truth that could no longer be denied: "Well... _I'm_ in love."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Huge thanks to Frumpologist and scullymurphy for being amazingly encouraging alphabetas.
> 
> Your thoughts and feedback are cherished and treasured! 
> 
> I'm afraid I've had some problems with my eye health and migraines lately. The opticians and doctor say it's due to too much screen-time. (My screen time has increased a lot since lock-down and working remotely). This, along with Life Stuff getting in the way, has meant that I've had to reduce the amount of time staring at my laptop, and therefore writing. Hence, I'm afraid there's going to be a delay posting the next chapter - I'm hoping only by a week or so, but it might be a couple. Sorry. But there's not long to go with this story now, and I repeat - it will be finished!


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